


A Man Can Die But Once

by mydeardoctorwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, BAMF John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magical Realism, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rewrite, Slow Burn, Violence, Vulnerable Sherlock, but then they get better, john and sherlock are younger than in canon, please heed these tags things get messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-05-16 00:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 104,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19307317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydeardoctorwatson/pseuds/mydeardoctorwatson
Summary: Sherlock ('Will') has been enslaved to the will of others for as long as he can remember, his unique deductive gifts being used for their own ends. That is until Lord James Moriarty seeks ownership of him for a new purpose, and Will's life is changed irrevocably.John Watson, an injured army doctor, working for Moriarty, will also see his life changed, when he is drawn to a man who is surrounded by more questions than answers.In the midst of a war between two kingdoms, how will these two men seek to save both themselves and each other?*COMPLETE*





	1. Will

“Oi, Will, get over here!”

Will shuffles forwards towards the voice that calls him, ever-present chains clinking around both his hands and feet. He can smell the choking scent of misery in the air, hear it in the wailing of human voices, which strike a discordant note against the sound of birdsong which fills the canopy of trees above his head.

He supposes that he should look at the people huddled on the ground in front of him with pity. They are fresh to the harshness of the world in which he has spent all his life, and therefore their terror is unadulterated and uncomprehending in the face of what is happening to them. But Will is numb to this sort of suffering. He is used to it, it is as constant to him as breathing, and so therefore he simply gets on with it.

He has made his way over to where Warton stands, wooden baton in hand, one booted foot placed forwards imposingly over the people huddled on the ground before him. Their hands and feet are chained as Will’s are, their slight movements made ungainly by the weight of the metal binding them. Will has taken to his chains of many long years with a dignified grace; they are as much a part of himself as his heart and lungs, he carries their load despite his lanky frame.

“Will, any of this lot worth anything?” Warton grunts, looking towards the younger man.

Will sighs and steps forwards a bit more, so he can have a good look at the people before him. The same old routine. Every time his captors raid some little village or hamlet, Will is summoned to survey and declare the captives as either worthy or unworthy of selling on to some money-grabbing, immoral figure who will not see their existence as anything more significant than a possible financial gain. It does not matter where they are, be it in the kingdom of Sherrinford, or, having crossed the border, in the kingdom of Appledore, Warton and Smith seek to make a profit in human slavery. His skills are the only reason Warton and Smith, his other captor, keep him around. He supposes that without them, he would most likely be dead by now.

“One farmhand, used to working with heavy machinery, would most likely be useable for heavy labour,” Will begins to reel off as his eyes travel over the captives. “this woman is a seamstress, this one is a midwife, this man here was most likely used to handling horses, and oh, make that two farmhands.”

Warton grunts again and surveys the captives with his own eyes. Will looks to him, can see the calculations going on under the man’s furrowed brow and bushy beard. There is a bit of stewed carrot stuck in the grisly hairs, and Will fights not to curl his lip.

“I think there is a man in Winton who might take an interest in the men, and Adler, she might like the women. Good. Now, piss off Will, get the horses ready.”

Will sighs again and turns away, ignoring the wide-eyed gazes of the captives all huddled on the ground. Most people think what he does is magic, some sort of trick, but magic is the twisting of nature to your own will, and Will’s deductions come as naturally to him as the clouds do to the sky. There is no deception, Will has never had the free will to be deceptive, he can hide nothing from Warton and Smith. And there is nothing to hide. They provide everything for him, ensure his continued existence, and before them, there were many other owners, too. Will’s life has been a constant line of owner after owner, and there is nothing Will can do.                                                                           

* * *

 

Will drops a pot and gets a kick to the ribs as a result. It is expected, and it does not bother him. He wonders if it should.

It is nightfall a few days after the sale of those wide-eyed individuals, and Will can feel exhaustion dragging him down, as it always does after the busy days of raiding, capturing and selling. He is pleased that they are resting for the night in a small dell in the Darkling Woods; the moss in these parts makes the ground a comfier place to sleep, and the thick canopy above his head protects him from the rain which so commonly falls in these parts. He only wears tattered shirt and trousers, has only ever worn that. Sometimes, when he acts out particularly bad, Warton strips the clothes off him and leaves him naked for a few days. His bare feet are constantly muddied, and it is only in winter when he is provided with a worn pair of leather shoes.

He sighs and bows his head as he sets the now only half-full pot of stew over a small fire. No food for him tonight, now. He is used to that. 

For a moment, he allows himself to close his eyes and retreat into his mind. In here, he is safe, can hide himself in a place of his own machinations. He has trained himself to separate his thoughts, to file them away or delete them completely; it is a trick he learnt from a man in the household of his third owner. It is the only way he has stayed sane; with all the misery he has seen and been subjected to. His mind is ordered, and in that order, he finds clarity. He has too many thoughts, sees too much of the world, learns to many secrets. Sometimes, though, the boat is rocked, and there are things that take him a little longer to process, evaluate, and file. It is a tedious process, but it is the only thing Will can control in his meaningless life.

“Will, for fuck’s sake, get your head out of the clouds and get that stew over here!” Smith spits. Will’s eyes fly open as he comes to the surface of his mind, touching reality once again. Pouring stew into two bowls, he obediently passes the bowls to Warton and Smith; he has not been ordered to pour himself some and therefore he simply sits there, watching the two men eat. He wonders if they were to notice if he were to close his eyes and-

“How long have we had you now, Will?” Smith asks through a mouthful of stew. In the firelight, the scars on his face, _childhood accident, his mother wasn’t looking as her son was tempted towards the grate, the pattern on his face is indicative of someone who-,_ Will shakes himself, _stop it,_ look slick and shiny.

Will knows exactly how long they have had him, one year and fifty-one days, but simply shrugs and replies. “No.”

“’Bout a year, just over.” Warton says, licking his spoon.

Smith nods, “That’s right. We got a good deal on you, seeing as you’d had so many complaints from your last owner. But we knew we could beat that insolence out of you. I think it worked, eh?”

Both men start chuckling, and Will simply stares at the fire. It is true, his body has not felt movement without pain since his time with Warton and Smith, and he has never been more grateful for those lessons taught to him on the control of emotions and thoughts; many nights have gone sleepless as Will has desperately tried to delete the abuse from his mind. It doesn’t always work, however.

“And now it is time for you to move on from us.” Warton says, and Will’s head shoots up to look at the man.

“You’re selling me?” Will can hardly believe his luck; he had thought he might be stuck with these men for the rest of his life, he is so good for their business. But now, there is the taste of…. not freedom, but escape from Warton and Smith, at least.

“Yes, we are, and for a much better price than we bought you for!” Smith says, and both men laugh again.  “Maybe we can finally buy some sodding horses, save my feet the trouble!”

“Who is it?” Will asks, and Smith throws a nearby log onto the fire so that it flares up, coming dangerously close to licking Will’s skin.

“That is not for you to know! He reprimands. “You’d better watch yourself, I thought we’d trained you better than that.”

Will sighs. “I’m sorry. I was just curious.”

“Well don’t be.” Smith says and throws his now empty bowl at Will’s feet. Warton’s quickly follows. “Your wondering doesn’t mean shit. Only the money we can get for you does. Now clean those up. Your new owner will be here at dawn.”                                                                             

* * *

 

Will does not sleep. He had not expected to, and when the light begins to break over the edge of the dell, he is relieved that something will finally _happen._ He has lain for hours, pondering the possibilities. He wonders if his new owner will let him grow out his hair or give him better clothes to wear. He tries not to get too excited, but it is difficult, when change dawns on the horizon.

He rises, and very carefully wakes Warton and Smith with a breakfast of barely heated stew; he no longer cares for the implications of not serving them a proper breakfast, what should it matter, when he will be leaving so soon?

Will is cleaning the bowls when he hears the cracking of sticks and the heavy beat of horse hooves on the ground coming ever closer. Smith and Warton do too, for they pull their swords from their belts and hold them aloft, wary.

“Greetings!” A voice calls from above the dell. “My dear friends.” 

Will looks up, and on the cusp of the dell, looking down on them with a wide smile on his face is Lord James Moriarty.

Will had first met the man on one of his first jobs with Warton and Smith, and to Will, Moriarty has always been a spectacle. The man wears riches unlike anything Will has ever known, and the sparkle in his eyes matches the sparkle of his bejewelled fingers. He has always been kind to Will, always praised him when Warton and Smith have traded with the man. But the jewels and riches cannot hide the man underneath; Will sees the same possessiveness in Moriarty as he does in Warton, and Smith, and in all the vile people who trade in human misery. Except, Moriarty is somehow worse. He is surrounded by an enticing aura, and Will cannot help but be drawn to it. The thrill of terror he feels at being sold to Moriarty is followed by a sobering sense of anticipation. The man exudes an intelligence, a sense of knowledge which Will, with his deductions used for the basest of means, can only aspire to. Moriarty draws him in, like a moth to a flame, and Will knows no better from his life than to follow the fire.

“My Lord!” Warton greets, as the man in question begins to descend the slope. As he comes closer, Will notices the man is adorned as usual in shimmering jewels, his eyes glistening in the dawn light. In particular, Will notices a gleaming green stone, embedded in a golden chain hung around Moriarty’s neck, which he has never seen before.

He is followed by his retinue of men, all armed, all protected with armour embossed with the magpie which is the symbol of Moriarty’s dynasty. Will has never met anyone more powerful than Moriarty; Kings and Queens are far above his small corner of the world, and therefore Moriarty is the only glimpse Will has ever had of a world far elevated from his own.

“Will, get over here for god’s sake!” Smith hisses at him, and he drags Will by the back of his shirt and throws him to the ground, making sure the slave is kneeling in front of his betters. A subtle kick is delivered to his side, and then Moriarty draws Smith’s attention away from Will.

“How do we find you this fine evening dear friends? Swimming in wealth?” Moriarty asks, standing with his hand on the hilt of the sword attached at his waist. In comparison, Warton with his sword looks ridiculous.

“Not so much swimming my lord as paddling.” Warton replies, and Moriarty laughs, a deep, guttural laugh that sounds anything but sincere.

“It is of no matter. Soon you will have an ocean’s worth of gold.” Moriarty says, and now he steps forward, and as he does so do his men. Will can sense them moving behind the fire, so that he, Warton and Smith are surrounded. “Put your swords away, gentlemen, there is no need for weapons.”

Warton and Smith, after a moment’s hesitation, do as Moriarty orders. Will assumes they do not want to foil any plans, now that the money is within touching distance.

“Good.” Moriarty says, and crouches down so that he is face to face with Will. Will can feel the man’s breath on his face; it is warm and damp and smells like wine. It is rather putrid, but Will does not let himself twitch. “Hello Will.”

“My Lord” Will mutters, not looking up from the ground.

“I’ve come to take you away from all this squalor.” Moriarty says, eyes trailing around the surrounding scenery lazily. “Would you like that?”

Will hesitates for a moment. “If that pleases you.” That is the reply that normally seems to please people.

Moriarty smiles. “Very good.” He reaches out, grabbing Will’s chin and raising his head until Will’s eyes meet his own. It feels like a challenge, and a cold tendril works its way up Will’s spine as Moriarty seems to stare into his very soul, see all the things Will keeps hidden away in his mind, and suddenly, Will wonders if it might be better were he to stay with Warton and Smith; their abuse if physical, but in Moriarty’s eyes Will sees a man who could go far beyond anything Warton and Smith have done.

Moriarty lets Will go and rises to his feet, brushing off the dirt from his trousers. His leather boots creak as he moves, and Will focusses on them for a moment, before braving a look up at his captors and soon to be owner. One of Moriarty’s men moves in the corner of Will’s eye, catching his attention, and he meets the eyes of a blonde man with a furrowed brow but with kindest eyes Will has seen for a long while. The man’s jaw twitches, and he looks away instantly. Will bows his head again.

“Listen, my friends, you don’t think I could take Will here off your hands free of payment?” Moriarty asks, putting his hands together in a mockery of begging.

Warton shifts from one foot to the other. “But…you promised us one hundred gold pieces.”

“I did,” Moriarty nods, and he draws his sword from its scabbard in a casual manner, getting a feel for the weapon in his hands. He turns on Warton and Smith, “but maybe _I lied._ ” Moriarty says, and his mood changes so suddenly Will feels as if he has been smacked around the face. His brow is furrowed, and he is grinding his teeth together. The sword points at both men, unwavering. “Hand Will over to me now, and neither of you will get hurt.”

Will’s heart begins to pound in his chest, and he clenches his hands into fists. Above him, Warton and Smith look to each other, unsure, but then Warton shakes his head, raising his sword once again, facing Moriarty. “I cannot do that. I was promised one hundred gold coins for Will. The boy is precious to us, I cannot hand him over for free.”

Moriarty pulls a disappointed face so melodramatic Will almost finds it funny. “Oh well!” he says, his voice high and sing-song. “If you don’t hand him over to me, then I suppose I will have to take him by force.” Moriarty snorts, curling his lip. “It’s a bit tedious though, are you sure you can’t just give him to me?”

Warton shakes his head, looking unsettled by Moriarty’s erratic behaviour. “No, My Lord, I cannot.”

Moriarty sighs, hanging his head, sword going limp in his hand for a moment. “Very well then.”

And then he moves forward, faster than Warton can anticipate, and slides his sword through Warton’s body, slicing through him until the end peeks out of Warton’s back.

And then all hell breaks loose.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/182140858@N07/48103650161)


	2. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence and gore, non-con drug use

Warton makes a discombobulated noise as the sword pierces his body, hand dropping his own sword. Smith is quick to bend down and grab it for himself.

“Shit!” He cries, as Moriarty’s men suddenly descend upon them.

Will watches as Warton’s body is skewered on Moriarty’s sword. The man is twisting the blade, a grim look of satisfaction on his face. The light is leaving Warton’s eyes, a dribble of blood coming from his mouth. Finally, Moriarty lets him go, and his body slumps to the ground, directly next to Will. Will watches it fall and observes the now dead body of his captor, Warton’s face slack and eyes blank.

Above him, Smith is putting up a brave fight, but he is severely outnumbered by Moriarty’s men. Moriarty is wiping his blade on Warton’s body, and as discreetly as possible, Will tries to back away, extremely aware that death could also be waiting for him, this dawn. Perhaps this was all a ruse, to get rid of two infamous slave dealers, and now by proxy, Will’s head is on the block, too.

Suddenly, Will is grabbed by hands from behind. Instinctively he fights, flailing against the person’s strong and able grip.

“Alright, alright!” The person restraining him says, but they do not release their hold on him, although the tight grip lessens a bit. He is being pulled to the side, away from the fight. He wonders if he could break free and get away. The small hands, however, are surprisingly strong. “Stop fighting, I’m not going to kill you, dammit!”

Will freezes for a moment, but he is unsure of whether to believe this man. He struggles again, and the man sighs. “I promise, alright? Lord Moriarty wants you alive, for some reason. We’ve come to take you away. Geez, stop fighting!”

Will stops, going limp. He had hoped the sudden change would disconcert the man and he could slip away, but the grip remains firm. Suddenly he is being turned, and then he is meeting the eyes of the same soldier he had caught sight of just before the fighting broke out, the man with the strangely kind eyes. At a close distance, Will can see the man is younger than he looks, the stress of the past years forming more creases and wrinkles on his face than ought to be there. But his eyes…they too are like an ocean, but unlike Moriarty’s eyes, this ocean is calm and inviting. The deductions try to push to the front of his brain, desperate to leave his mouth, but he forces himself to keep his lips sealed shut; scaring this man now might lead to disastrous results.

“Stop fighting me, alright?” The man says. “I promise you; we are not going to kill you!”

“Watson!” Moriarty calls, striding over to them. Behind him, the men are stood over the now dead bodies of both Warton and Smith. They are relieving the men of any valuable possessions, handling their bodies like a child would a toy. “That went well!”

Watson, as Will now knows him, looks from Will to Moriarty. He looks a little unnerved by the man. “Yes, My Lord.”

“Oh, Will…” Moriarty says, looking Will up and down, bottom lip pouting. “Look at you, poor thing, in these chains…we’ll get them off of you soon enough.”

“What do you want with me?” Will forces himself to ask, although he is internally screaming at himself to stay quiet, stay obedient, stay alive.

“Oh, you’ll soon see.” Moriarty steps forward, looking Will directly in the face. There is a hunger there which does not look like it can be satisfied. “I’ve heard rumours about you for a while, about what you can do, most people call it a trick, but they would be idiots, wouldn’t they?”

Will goes to take the man at his word, read off all he can about him. That old spark of insolence flares up in him, it is something which many have tried to beat out of him and failed to. Warton and Smith had come the closest, but now, their dead bodies lie feet from Will, and desperation calls. He stares at Moriarty, but then…. then, it is as if his mind has been wiped. Moriarty is a blank slate; Sherlock cannot wrap his head around the man in front of him. He blinks, looks down to Watson’s hands, which still hold him. _Chaffed, used to holding a weapon, but nimble. The pieces of herbs stuck under his nails and the faint smell of honey speaks of a healer’s hands, too. A mercenary and a healer? Odd._

There, there it is again, its imposing presence, normally so intrusive, now a comfort. He looks back to Moriarty. “How did you do that?”

Moriarty smiles, baring pearly white teeth. He does not answer Will, but instead nods to Watson, “Make sure he is settled in the carriage, and monitor him regularly. He is precious cargo, understood?”

“Yes, Sir.” Comes a voice in Will’s ear.

“Good.” Moriarty leans forward, and he touches Will’s face with his palm, looking deep into his eyes. “Very interesting. I will be seeing you soon, _Will.”_

Moriarty says his name conspiratorially, as if understanding something Will doesn’t, and then he is gone, his boots snapping twigs under foot as they go.

Watson fumbles with something, and Will smells it before he sees it. Immediately he starts to struggle.

“Don’t!”

 Watson brings the rag to his face, and Will is forced to breathe in the noxious sedative the material is doused in. He _hates_ the drug; too often has it been used to subdue him, and now, at the start of a new life at the hands of the most dangerous man he has ever met, he does not want it. But there is nothing he can do, and soon he feels the medicated pull of a dark abyss, and unwillingly accepts its invitation.                                                                  

* * *

 

John carefully shoves the medicated rag back into the leather pouch on his belt as the man in front of him goes slack in his arms. Kneeling, John carefully coaxes the man’s unconscious body over his shoulder before rising slowly, making sure the man is secure in his hold. It is far too easy for John to lift him; the man is so undernourished. John can feel his ribs digging into his shoulder blades.

His bad shoulder gives a twinge, but John groans and pushes it off, ignoring the pain as best he can. Just over the way, the other men, all baseless, honourless men John has despised since first meeting, are standing around the now burning bodies of the two slave traders. The scent of burning flesh fills the air, and John swallows down bile, pushing away childhood memories of a burning hut and his sisters petrified screams. Now is not the time for that, thank you very much. 

Ahead of him, Lord Moriarty has already made his way up the slope of the dell and is being handed the reigns to his horse by his second-hand man, Sebastian Moran, a man possibly more baseless than the rest. John is far out of his depth, but life has dealt him a cruel hand, and he has had to side with these men to survive.

As he passes by, Moriarty looks up at him, those hawk-like eyes latching onto the unconscious man over John’s shoulder. the look on his face is possessive, and John could swear he hears the man growl under his breath. And then he smiles, turning away and swinging himself up into his saddle.

“I will expect you at Appledore in three days’ time, as will King Charles. Do ensure you are there on time, Seb, yes?” Moriarty says, adjusting his cape on his shoulders.

“Of course, Sir.” Moran says, with a small bow, and then Moriarty is away, his horse kicking up leaves and dirt as he goes. Moran watches him go, and then turns to see John watching him. King Charles is awaiting them? John had assumed they would be going to Moriarty’s residence, on the outskirts of the city of Appledore, but apparently not. But why? Of what significance was this slave?

“Watson, you’d best be seeing to your patient.” Moran says, voice cold, and John holds his gaze for a moment before huffing and turning away. The other men are now joining them, slowly making their way up from the dell. The light-haunted tone of their voices makes John sick to his stomach.

John veers way from the rest of the group, climbing the slope whilst ignoring the every-increasing ache of his arms and shoulders. He breaks the top of the dell, and straightens, heading for the carriage in front of him. It is a large contraption, which could hold approximately five people if needed, with double doors opening from the rear. They are wide open, awaiting their prisoner, and John carefully climbs in, before depositing the slave safely in his new prison. The carriage is adorned with throws and hangings and more cushions than John has ever seen in one place. It is also lit by small lanterns hung at intervals on the walls, separated by two windows on either side, through which the early morning light streams.

John groans as he rolls his shoulder, wincing as the pain sharpens to a crescendo before settling into a low thrumming throb.

“Blasted thing.” He mutters, finding his leather flask and taking a long, desperately needed gulp of water. He takes a moment, resting against some of the plush cushions in the carriage.

He observes the slave for a moment, seeing the usual condition for someone kept in long-term imprisonment in poor condition. He takes the man’s pulse, finding it slow but steady. The man has bruises, and many, many scars, but there is nothing that obviously needs tending to. The man must be in a perpetual state of discomfort. John can sympathise.

One arrow to the shoulder, and his promising career as an army surgeon had been stolen from him. A few months on, with recovery slow and the affect on John’s spirits negative to say the least, and John had been forced to accept this job as Lord Moriarty’s lackey. His good friend Stamford, bonded since army days, had said that it was King Charles Magnussen himself who recommended John to Moriarty, praising his skills as a healer and his competency as a soldier, but John is sure he was lying in an attempt to raise John’s spirits. He is nothing now. How could King Charles have known about him?

This job is far from perfect, and John can already feel frustration pulling at his mind. He has been ordered to simply monitor and continue drugging the slave, Will, instead of providing him any proper care. Care for a patient does not exist in this world; John is simply a lackey. As someone who has always had this instinctive need to help others, it is a stifling feeling, and John forces himself to ignore the clinking of the chains, the chaffing they have caused around the man’s wrists and ankles and look at things objectively. This is a job, and that is all it is, and at the end of this he will receive his payment and return to his small rented room in the heart of the city of Appledore and forget that this slave in front of him even exists.

He should not care.

He _will_ not care.                                                                      

* * *

 

John has just organised all his salves and herbs and is counting his bandages when the carriage doors bang open and Anderson climbs in, rat-like face scrunched up as he adjusts to the lower light level.

“Can I help you?” John says, irritated. He despises the man, who is as spiteful as he is spineless.

“Moran sent me, to keep an eye on you.” Anderson replies, looking at the slave in disgust.

“On _me?_ ” John asks. What has he done? He’s been trying his hardest to do his job and nothing more.

“Yeah, says _he’s_ precious cargo, needs a guard as well as a physician.” Anderson says, pointing a dirty finger at Will.

John shrugs, deciding that fighting the man is more effort than its worth. “Don’t know what Moran thinks I’ll do, but fine, so be it.”

Anderson snorts, before turning and closing the carriage doors behind him, locking them shut. He bangs on the roof with his fist, and then they are lurching into motion, gaining speed with every second.

John resumes the counting of his bandages, aware of Anderson’s gaze on his back. With the ratty man to his right and the unconscious slave to his left, John cannot help but wonder just what he has got himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I would post two chapters at once, in order to get things going.   
> I estimate this will come to about 24 chapters in total; I have about half written, and a clear and firm plan for the rest, so rest assured, this will not be abandoned!  
> I will be updating every friday and monday in the future, so I will see you monday!
> 
> Thank you for reading, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated


	3. First Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind reception to the first two chapters. I hope you enjoy this new one.

Will’s return to consciousness is slow, like rising from the depths of the ocean and eventually breaking to the surface. As he does, he is hit with a wave of nausea, and his breath hitches as he tries to prevent himself from vomiting.

“Will? Can you hear me?”

There is a hand on his wrist, taking his pulse, and the voice is calm and quiet. Funny, Warton and Smith have never been gentle with him, so why now are they-

Will bolts upright as remembrance inserts itself into his brain, and he has already yanked the hand away from his wrist and has his hands raised defensively before whoever is there can react.

“Easy, easy, it’s alright!” A man says, and Will turns to see Watson, the man who had drugged him, holding a reassuring hand out to him, obviously trying to placate him. “Listen, my name is John, I’m-”

“An ex-army surgeon,” Will interrupts, defending himself in the way he knows best. “You were injured, and money has been tight, so you took this job, even though you do not like Lord Moriarty, but the strain of the injury has taken its toll; you barely sleep most nights.”

Watson blinks, and then opens his mouth, before closing it again. Will watches him warily. Finally, the man speaks, “How on _earth_ could you possibly know all that?”

“The way you hold yourself, in that heavy armour, speaks of a military past, as does your short haircut. Your hands are chaffed from handling weapons and yet are still soft, due to your regular handling of salves, and honey for disinfectant. I can also see the remnants of herbs under your nails; therefore, it seems probable you are a physician. However, you are favouring your right side, and when you were restraining me earlier, you were doing so, too. You present yourself as a tidy, and proud individual, so why would you leave a career working as a healer in the army? An injury which put you out of service, I assume to your left shoulder? Unemployed and injured, you needed money, and therefore took employment with Lord Moriarty, but you have no respect for him; the way you spoke with him and interacted with him in the dell told me as much. Finally, the bags under your eyes are indicative of someone who suffers from long-term lack of sleep.” Will finishes, and he finds he is breathing heavy, chest-heaving. The air in the room is still once he is finished, and only now does he recognise the rolling feel of a carriage underneath him, and the feel of the softest material he has ever felt surrounding him. Damn. This is an alien situation, and he has just read this man like a book, completely exposing him. A beating will follow now, surely. He instantly tenses.

Watson is still blinking rapidly, and his mouth is gaping. He sits back, and Will cringes, ready for the hit, but the man simply exhales and says, “That was… _amazing._ ”

Will’s head darts up in surprise, eyes wide. “Sorry?”

“That was amazing, utterly brilliant!” Watson says, looking astounded. Will realises the man is not going to hit him, and finds himself relaxing, just a little bit. That had not gone down like he thought it would, he intended to scare the man, but either way, the man does not seem dangerous.

“ _Freak.”_ Comes a second voice, and Will snaps his head round to look to the furthest corner of the carriage. A ratty man sits there, his lip curled in disgust, his eyes slightly fearful. “Was that sorcery?”

Will fights the urge to sigh, wary of the man’s weapon. “I simply observed.”

“Quiet!” The ratty man says. “How dare you speak to us in this way? You are a slave, our prisoner, you meaningless _shit_ , so if you think-”

“Quiet, _Anderson._ Lord Moriarty wants him safe and well, do you think your shouting will help with that?” Watson interrupts with a face like thunder, “I am the physician in charge, you are simply here to guard, so do, please be quiet.”

Will watches in astonishment as the ratty man, Anderson, opens his mouth and closes it one, two, three times, before huffing and turning his back to them, muttering something under his breath. Watson turns back to him, blowing his breath out through his cheeks.

“That was amazing, really. You got all of that from just one look?” Will nods. “Wow!” He says, and his face is open and honest. Will is baffled. He has never met someone who has reacted in this way.

“That’s not how people normally react” He confesses.

“How do people normally react?” Watson asks.

Will gives him a long look, his eyes flicking down to his chains, and then back again. Understanding passes across Watson’s face, and he gives a slow nod. This man clearly isn’t used to this backward, harsh world that has been Will’s whole life. How did he think people would react, to a slave who can read between the lines? This man is astounding and rather…. compelling, in his being completely out of place.

“Well,” the man clears his throat, and Will finds his discomfort almost amusing, “look, my name is John Watson, although I’m surprised you couldn’t deduce that-”

A laugh is startled out of Will, and he is so surprised the breath catches in his throat, and he starts to cough. How long has it been since he laughed?

John is looking at him with concern, brow slightly furrowed, and Will gets himself under control, his coughing trailing off. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” John says. “but, look, we’re going to be stuck in here for a few days, until we get where we’re going, so you should tell me if you have any injuries I need to look at. Are you in pain?”

“No,” Will answers immediately; that is the answer people always want. “Where are we going?”

The man hesitates. “I can’t tell you that.”

That was to be expected, but he had been hoping for more from this man, who seems disjointed with the world around him. Will hangs his head and sighs. “What do you think I’m going to do? Break my way out of these chains, get past both you and him, unlock the doors and leap out of this moving carriage without attracting the attention of the armed guard which surrounds us?”

Will notices the man guarding him, Anderson, turn his way and curl his lip, obviously offended by Will’s indignation, but he ignores him, used to his behaviour and very prepared for the punishment should there be any consequences.

John chuckles, the skin around his mouth creasing. “No. No, although that would be impressive. But, I’m sorry, I cannot tell you.” He bites the inside of his cheek, obviously thinking about something, and Will’s eyes narrow, suspicious, “Look, I’m really sorry, but, if you’re sure you’re not in pain and there’s nothing I can treat you for, then I have to give you this.” John reaches behind him, and when he turns around, he is holding a goblet, filled to the brim with what looks like water, but John is so transparent that Will instantly deduces the presence of a sedative.

Will gives him a long look. He does _not_ want to take that sedative. Beatings, verbal abuse, those he can manage, those he can sort in his mind and file away, but the sedatives melt his mind and turn everything upside down.

John shifts to look at Anderson and then back to Will. Ah, if it weren’t for the presence of that idiot, John might offer him some leniency. “Look, I’m sorry, I know that the last thing you want in this strange situation is to be drugged against your will, but I promise you that nothing will happen to you while you are, alright?”

John’s eyes are sincere, his expression brimming with honesty, and Will considers that, if Moriarty is the cruellest man he’s ever met, perhaps John Watson is the kindest.

“How can I trust you?” Will asks. He must be sure. He needs the data to be sure.

John pauses, looking for an answer. “You’ve deduced me, apparently, know what kind of man I am. So trust me.”

Will meets his eyes, and he maintains eye contact with John for a very long time, until he finally holds out his hand, motioning for the goblet. John sighs, looking relieved, and passes him the goblet.

“It won’t be all that bad.” He tries to reassure, as Will downs the liquid in one big gulp. “In fact, you’re probably missing out on a lot of boredom!”

“Boredom is the least of my worries.” Will says, as he passes John the now empty goblet and turns around, lying down with his back to John.

As he begins to drift, to separate from his physical body, he wonders if his words will have left John speechless, once again.                                                                           

* * *

 

Well that was… unexpected.

If John is completely honest, he had been expecting to be confronted with a traumatised and terrified slave. From his experience with those he has treated in the past, they have mostly been mere shadows of human beings. But Will, whilst showing the sure physical and underlying psychological signs of someone used to long-term imprisonment and abuse, is far from broken.

John is astounded, completely dumbfounded by the man in front of him. He has not felt so completely awed in a long time. It is strangely refreshing, and now, more than ever, does John wish that his circumstances were different.

The man’s last words to him before the drug took him has left a bad taste in John’s mouth. He had forgotten himself for a moment, forgotten where he is and what his role is, gone against all he had told himself just before Will awoke. John can see now, after the fantastic deductions Will gave, why King Charles might be interested in the man, and a cold tendril of fear creeps its way up John’s spine for what the future might hold for Will. And the poor man doesn’t even know it, cannot prepare himself for what might happen to him because John needs to protect his own back and-

John takes a deep breath, leaning forward to take Will’s pulse and assure himself the man is sleeping soundly.

“Do you ever wander what the world’s come to when someone with a mind like that is forced into a life like this?” John wanders aloud.

Anderson snorts, rolling his eyes. “This is no great poetic tale, Watson. Life is cruel and unfair, get over it.”

“Shut up, Anderson.” John retorts, turning his back on the man.

Anderson is seemingly the embodiment of most things John hates, and his physical presence is the only thing getting in John’s way of providing Will with a little leniency, of relieving the guilt that, despite his best efforts, is building up inside him, just a little bit. Were it not for Anderson, who, surely, will report back to Moran any small error on John’s part, John would have been much more lenient on Will. Oh, who is he supposed to be fooling? John knows he would not have drugged the man.

From the first moment the man opened his mouth John’s resolve had begun to slip through his fingers. He barely has a hold of it now. And he isn’t quite sure what to do.

It is only when, a few hours later, Will starts to twitch and move in his sleep, obviously in the throes of some nightmare, does John’s resolve fly out of the window. John has had enough nightmares of his own, both following his injury and from before, _the fire, his sister’s screams,_ he shakes his head, _no, not now,_ to know they can wear you down, rub raw wounds you would rather keep covered up. To see someone who is obviously brilliantly clever and so unjustly dealt a bad hand in life, taken so low due to the injustices done against him, is more than John can take.

And so, he waits until they have stopped for the night, until Moran has come in to inspect both prisoner and his physician, to decide he will make up some salves from some of his most noxious herbs and plants.

“Oh, what the fuck is that?!” Anderson cries, immediately covering his face with his sleeve. “Watson, what the hell are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Anderson,” John says, with a put-upon politeness. “These are just the vital components for the prisoner’s sedative that I must make up now. If you’d rather I didn’t make it, because of the _smell,_ you’re more than welcome to talk to Moran.”

Anderson starts coughing, staring at him with angry eyes. “Oh god! Well, I can’t put up with this! How much more have you got to do?”

John indicates to the large heap of plants and herbs, laid out on a small wooden table in front of him. Anderson’s eyes widen.

“Bloody hell. Right, that’s enough. I can’t take anymore of this!” Anderson stumbles to the carriage doors, flinging them open and practically falling out, coughing and spluttering. John fights to keep the smile off his face.

He hears raised voices, and then Moran is ducking his head inside the carriage. He instantly covers his nose with the back of his hand. “What the hell is that Watson?”

“As I said to Anderson, vital ingredients for the sedative. I’m sorry, but it has to be made up.” John explains, shrugging.

Moran’s eyes flick down to the mulch of plants the table, and then to the still sleeping Will. His lip curls. “Anderson refuses to come back in.”

John shrugs again, putting on his most apologetic face. Moran turns to face the retinue outside, and John can just about make out him gesticulating to people, can hear the curse words on his tongue as the sounds of protest greet his words. Moran turns back to John with a sigh, irritation creasing his brow.

“Look, Watson, I’m going to trust you on this one, because it seems like none of these sods want to have to sit in here where it smells like feet. Keep him sedated, and keep him alive, and I’ll let you alone in here with him, alright?”

“Yes, sir.” John nods, trying not to let his relief show. “I’ll see he’s guarded.”

Moran nods, and then quickly turns and closes the carriage door, trying to hold back a cough. John chuckles, shaking his head. He cannot believe that worked!

He looks towards Will, but the other man is still unconscious, completely unfazed by the sour smell which fills the air. It is just him and John now, and when he wakes, John is sure he won’t be able to stop himself from helping the man.

For the first time in a long while he feels alive.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!   
> See you on Friday for Chapter Four: Kindness


	4. Kindness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos, comments and subscriptions so far, it is greatly appreciated!

It is not until late into the evening, when the sun is just vanishing beneath the horizon, that Will starts to stir. John immediately discards his attempts at removing his chainmail and leans over towards the other man, taking his pulse.

“Will?” He calls.

The other man suddenly shoots up, hands up in front of him in defence. He had done the same earlier, and John wonders if he always wakes in such agitation, and feels sadness claw its way into his throat.

“It’s alright, it’s John, remember?”

Will blinks, lowering his hands with a _clink_ of his chains. John’s eyes are immediately drawn to the metal, to the way it chafes against Will’s paper-thin skin.

“Don’t be sorry.” Will says, voice still rough from sleep.

“Excuse me?”

“I said don’t be sorry. About the chains. I’ve always had them, and they don’t bother me.”

“Oh.” John says. Right. The man must have deduced that from something John did, somehow. He scratches the back of his head. Will speaks before he can, however.

“What is that _smell?_ ”

John chuckles, and Will waits patiently until he has finished, fingers coming up to scratch at his shaved head. “Anderson repellent!” John finally manages to say, in between his giggling.

“What?” Will asks, completely baffled.

John waves him off. “Never mind. Sorry.” He sniffs, running a hand over his face to gain his composure. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

Will nods, giving him a concerned look, as if he sincerely thinks John has lost his mind. John realises with a harsh slap back to reality that he might be worried John might suddenly make a move to harm him, his behaviour has been so out of place. He sobers immediately.

“Sorry. Really. How are you feeling?” John asks, sitting up properly. Will’s face is cast in half-light by the glowing lamps of the carriage, and John can just about make out the downturn of his mouth.

“Woozy.”

John feels guilt like a stab to the ribs. “Yeah, sorry about that. But,” he leans forward, lowering his voice, “I’ve managed to sort that out. Moran, he’s the main guard, has trusted me to look out for you on my own; so there’s no need for me to use the sedative now Anderson isn’t around.”

John expects Will to look pleased about this, but the man looks confused, more than anything. He blinks a few times, scratching the back of his neck. “Why would you do that?”

It is John’s turn to frown. “Because…. well, it’s rather unpleasant, isn’t it? I could see you didn’t like it, and I’d rather not have to put someone through something they didn’t want. It wasn’t for the best. So…there.”

Will stares at him, unblinking. John simply watches, frown deepening. When this continues for longer than a minute, he calls out the man’s name. Will snaps back into himself, blinking.

“You alright?” John asks. That was very strange; he has never seen someone go into a state like that before.

Will nods. “Yes…. Thank you.”

John gives him a small smile, and he feels something warm inside him when Will returns John’s smile with his own one. 

The moment is broken by a knock at the carriage door, and John turns and climbs over multiple cushions and throws to answer it.                                                                              

* * *

 

Will saves the memory of John Watson doing something because Will does not like it and stores it away in a new room in his mind he creates just for the man. He wants to keep it, so that when his time with John has passed, he can hide in his mind and savour his kindness over and over again.

John is looking at him with some concern, and Will realises he was most likely simply staring into the far distance for some time; when he had done that with Warton and Smith, they had joked he might have had one too many kicks to the head, but John Watson had been concerned…

Whilst John turns to answer the knock at the door, Will takes a moment to run a hand over his face. The last remaining dregs of the sedative are still clouding his mind and his vision, like algae on a water’s surface, and when John returns with two bowls of stew in hand, he can’t quite make the connection.

 “Here.” John says, holding out a bowl to Will. Will stares down at it, and then looks back to John. “Don’t you want it?”

Will hesitates for a moment more before taking the stew. The bowl is warm in his palms, and he shivers, bringing it closer to himself. He has never had his own proper meal before, and he takes a deep breath before the significance of this meal becomes too much, fighting back the burning behind his eyes. The first mouthful is heavenly, whoever made this is a much better cook than he is, and he savours every single bite.

He saves the memory of John Watson giving him a proper meal in his mind, too, in his new room, which he decides to label ‘John Watson’. John had provided the meal for him as if it was normal. Will is starting to enjoy the man’s ignorance of how Will should be treated, and he decides to make the most of it while he can.

They eat in silence, John casting Will a few glances every now and then. He is trying to be discreet, but Will notices every single one.

Once they are finished, John returns the bowls to the men outside, and locks the carriage doors behind him when he returns. He also makes sure the window shutters are closed. Will tenses.

“Okay.” John starts, tapping his hands against his thighs. He hesitates, before coming and sitting within reach of Will, getting himself comfortable on the cushions. “Look, I know where we’re going, and I know who we’re meeting.”  
Will’s heart rate accelerates, and he hides his trembling hands in between his thighs, bringing his knees up to his chest. He nods.

John takes a deep breath. “We’re going to the City of Appledore, capital of the kingdom which shares its name. We’ll cross the border tomorrow and reach the city the day after that.” John pauses, blowing a breath through his cheeks before continuing. “There, I have reason to believe, we will be meeting King Charles Magnussen.”

Will stares down at the fur throws underneath him, thinking hard. King Charles Magnussen? Is Moriarty selling him off to him? He assumes Moriarty has told his royal highness about Will’s abilities, for what else would appeal about him to a _king_? He feels sweat break out across his forehead; even Warton and Smith had feared Magnussen. Will has heard many tales, all of them ominous, about the man’s perverse pleasure of pain. He had seen the result of the man’s cruelty once; a man he had been in the same batch at the slave market at, had been blinded by Magnussen: the man’s eyes had been torn out, and gaping holes remained behind. The image makes him shudder to this day, and he shuts it away in the corner of his mind.

“Appledore, what is it like?” Is all he can think to say to John, who is watching him with concern.

John shrugs. “Well, it’s not too different from here; lots of dense forest, lots of wild moors, lots of terrible people.”

“I should feel right at home.” Will cannot help but comment sardonically.

John gives him a small, sad smile. His eyes are far away and distant, and it is clear the mention of Appledore stirs unpleasant memories.

As terrible as the rumours about King Charles are, Will cannot help the tendril of anticipation which works its way into his brain. It is the same one which had crept over him when Moriarty arrived to take him from Warton and Smith. It argues that whatever might happen, the presence of a king will change his life, no matter how short that time is, it might possibly be very different from the life he’s left thus far. And if Magnussen is literally the death of him, that does not matter either; Will has nothing else to live for, no hope of a  better life, so why should it bother him what Magnussen wants with him, or what Moriarty wants with him, and whether in the process he will loose his life?

Outside the carriage, the sound of laughter and loud voices raised in mirth can be heard, and Will flicks his eyes over to John, who is quietly organising his salves and remedies. “Wouldn’t you rather spend time with your comrades?”

John shakes his head. “No. Not my kind of people. Besides, someone needs to look after you.” He tenses, cheeks going red. “I mean, watch you.”

Will contemplates John again, as the man turns his burning face back to his medicines. This man really is unlike any other Will has ever met before. He seems to have formed some strange protective guard over Will, and not simply because King Charles wants him. Only once before has someone done something for Will out of selflessness, and that had been the man who had taught him his mind trick. Kindness can be confusing, and sometimes Will forgets how to define kindness; Warton not beating him and only stripping him naked for burning dinner had been a kindness, John risking his own neck by defying orders is a kindness. But that John’s kindness comes without payment, or punishment, brings him to the conclusion that John’s kindness is worth more than anyone else’s that he’s met. John’s is more sincere, and selfless; for a long while, he had not known the definition of the word, but now, in the case of John Watson, he fully understands what selflessness means.

“I think you are the kindest person I have ever met.” Will remarks, and John turns to him, eyes wide with surprise, before his mouth breaks into a wide smile.                                                                              

* * *

 

John is sincerely touched by Will’s words, and he cannot stop the smile which graces his face for the rest of the evening.

He hopes that the man’s appraisal of him as ‘the kindest person’ he has ever met means he has placed a modicum of trust in John. They will need to trust each other if John’s chances at sparing the man some suffering are going to succeed.  

It did not take John long to break his own promise to himself, but he really does not care. Will is obviously incredibly special, and unique; for heaven’s sake, even King Charles wants him, apparently! And so, like a moth to the flame, John is drawn to him. John was never going to be satisfied living an unsatisfying existence, with his battered shoulder and his prospects vanished. He assumes this is his small rebellion against a world which has sought to bring him down and leave him despairing.

He is saddened to know that it will all be over in two days. Will will be delivered to King Charles and John will return to his rented room with bag full of coins but with empty prospects once again.

For now, at least, he will enjoy the company of one of the most interesting men he has ever met.                                                                               

* * *

 

The following days move at a snail’s pace for John. His company is not as talkative as he had hoped. In fact, Will spends most of his time sleeping, which is completely understandable; life has been hard on him, and John wonders if the man has ever had the pleasure of having time to kill with a good deep sleep. It is rather fortunate, in a way, for every time Moran has checked in on them, by coincidence, Will has been sleeping, and John has been able to pass him off as sedated. He does not think the man suspects anything.

But when he is awake, he shows great interest in John’s medicines and salves, and John finds he enjoys taking the man through each and every one; he can see how Will absorbs information, there is a light in his eyes which makes John smile. His education has been precious to him, and he is more than happy to pass it one to someone else.

“Did you ever learn to…you know,” John asks, as the light is falling on the second day of travel. The border is just behind them, and Appledore awaits. “Read and write?”

Will nods. “I must’ve been taught at some point.”

John frowns. “What? Don’t you remember?”

Will shakes his head. He clears his throat. “No. But I’ve always been able to.”

John’s eyes widen in surprise. This is a delicate conversation, but he is intrigued to know. “What is the first thing you remember?”

Will considers this, his cerulean eyes staring into the far distance. “Hands.” He replies. “Grabbing me. A hand in my hair, dragging me away from a horse. In a woodland. It’s very indistinct. But I remember I was wearing a thick cloak at the time. I really liked that cloak.”

John bites the inside of his cheek. To him, it sounds like Will was kidnapped and sold into slavery at a very young age. He could, of course, be wrong, and he doesn’t push it, so he simply nods and remains silent.

“Yes, I think so, too.” Will suddenly says.

“Sorry?” John asks.

“That I was kidnapped at a young age.” Will replies.

“How did you-oh, never mind.” John waves him off. How the man does that he has no idea, but apparently he was giving off some sort of physical tick. “Haven’t you ever been curious as to who you were before?”

“Of course.” Will replies, but his tone is without conviction. “But there’s never been any point in speculation. I remember nothing from before that first memory and after all these years I haven’t been found by whomever may have had a close attachment to me, so evidently, I did not matter much. What is the point in dwelling on something that is only an indistinct memory?”

John feels unadulterated sorrow at that. He cannot help himself from mourning for this man’s lost past, for the promise of what he might have been, with a brain as brilliant as his. The memory of his sister might be painful, but John cherishes the remembrance of her face and her voice. If he had nothing, like Will does, then…

“Don’t feel sorry for me, John.” Will says, and he meets John’s eyes with his own. “I cannot miss something I do not remember. This is the only life I’ve had, and its cruelty no longer affects me.”

John blinks. He feels anger rising inside him. At Will’s words, at the men who have normalised abuse for him, but mostly he feels anger that there is nothing he can do. They are travelling to King Charles, where Will will most very likely be forced into yet another thing against his will, and John can do _nothing_ about that fact.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t accept that.” John retorts, and he turns his back, unable to look at Will anymore. He cannot do what the man has asked of him; John’s compassion has always been his weak point.                                                                            

* * *

 

Will watches John’s back, confused. His earlier conclusion was correct; John really is the kindest man he has ever met, and it seems that kindness has become frustrating enough for John to turn his back and to start tidying away his things with a little bit more force than is strictly necessary. Interesting. Will had insisted John not feel sorry for him, but the man cannot help himself. Will wonders if there was ever someone who cared about him before, and the remembrance of his earliest memory brings forth long-forgotten feelings of comfort and belonging. He shakes his head; those feelings are misplaced, unanchored to anyone or anything in his memory. He closes his eyes, sorting them away into their correct place in his mind. Better.

When he opens his eyes, John still has his eyes averted, face turned downwards. Already, Will finds himself pining after John’s easy-going manner. Time to change the subject.

“What is your earliest memory?”

John looks to him, surprised. His brow furrows as he thinks. A small smile graces his lips. “With my mother in the small plot of land outside our cottage. I come from simple means, but it was a happy enough childhood.”

There is something lingering under John’s words, some deeply imbedded sorrow. Death, Will deduces, someone close to him. A brother, perhaps? He decides not to pry, as much as his interest is peaked; asking someone something ‘delicate’ in the past has always been followed by some form of punishment, offense that he dare ask, and whilst John is completely different from those men, grief can do strange things to a man.

“How did you become a healer, if you were from simple means?” Will asks, genuinely curious about the steppingstones John has trodden to get him where he is today.

“My mother and I, we had to move to the city of Appledore when our cottage burned down.” John replies, his cheek twitching. Will instantly makes the connection. “A physician there noticed me trying to help out a small girl one day; she had fallen from the back of a cart and badly hurt her arm. I had always been interested in the healing properties of certain plants and was attempting a very crude version of what the man could do when he turned up at the door. Noticing my enthusiasm, he took pity on me and taught me all I know now.”

Interesting. Another person who had done someone a selfless kindness. Maybe John is not as singular as Will thinks he is? Is this what ‘normal life’ is like? Above the surface of the scum Will resides in, are there people willing to do others a favour without cost? He might never know, but if John is a representative of that world, he reckons it is something he should forget about; you cannot miss what you’ve never had.

“Please, teach me some more, will you?” Will asks, indicating to John’s supplies, now half-packed up. John gives him a small smile, and nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!  
> I will see you on Monday for Chapter Five: Preparations


	5. Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments, kudos and subscriptions so far, enjoy this chapter

“Watson!” Moran calls, and John pokes his head out of the carriage, blinking in the bright light of the setting sun.

“Yes, sir?” John asks. Moran motions for him to come to him, and so John eases himself down from the carriage and tries to approach Moran without showing how stiff his legs are from being crouched in there for two days straight.

“Watson. Here.” Moran says once John has reached him, and he shoves a pile of something at John.

John looks down at what now occupies his hands, and realises that it is an assortment of clothes, as well as some leather boots; they are all rather worn and have obviously seen better days, but they are still wearable.

“We’ll be reaching the citadel tomorrow morning. Change the slave into these before we arrive; he needs to look much more presentable than he is now.” Moran says, with a slight curl to his lip. “Anderson will be coming by with a pale of water this evening; make sure the slave washes and that any wounds are seen to if necessary. The last thing we need now is an infection.”

“Yes, sir.” John nods. This is all further confirms to him that it really is King Charles Will is being taken to.

“Well go on then.” Moran says, and John can feel the man’s gaze on him as he returns to the carriage.

Will is sleeping, again, when he returns, and John tries to climb in as quietly as possible. The peace is short lived, however, as soon Anderson comes clomping in with a pale of water, huffing under his breath. He places the pale down not too gently, sloshing the water over the sides.

“Here.” He says, chucking a rag at John, who catches it in mid-air. Anderson sniffs. “Still smells like shit in here.”

John sighs, shaking his head at the man’s ill-temper, or rather, make that ill-temperament. He turns to Will as Anderson leaves, carriage doors slammed shut behind him, to find the other man blinking awake, taking in the pile of clothes and the pale of water.

At the sight of the water, a look of apprehension crosses over his face, which he quickly manages to hide, but John notices it. He decides to ignore it, to save the man his pride, as well as to at least try to put up the front of honouring the man’s request not to feel pity for him, although Will most likely sees through the front anyway.

“There’s some water for you to wash with, and those clothes are for you to dress in for tomorrow; we’ll be reaching the citadel in the morning.” John explains, and Will takes a deep breath, nodding. He makes a move for the pale.

“I can go, if you want.” John offers. “Give you some privacy.”

“I need some help to get out of my clothes.” Will admits, eyes averted.

_Of course he does,_ John berates himself. Slave clothing is made to be easily removable, should punishment be necessary or anything more unpleasant be carried out on their body. It is also made to be able to come off without removing their chains. Ties at convenient points unlace everything so that they fall apart easily.

“Yes. Sorry.” John leans forward, and soon Will is undressed, his old clothing lying in pieces on the floor. John gathers them in his arms, turning away and giving Will some privacy; the man doesn’t need to see John’s concern at how thin he is written all over his face. “I’ll take these outside. I think it might be best if we burn them.”

Will just nods, not looking at him, and John makes a hasty retreat.                                                                               

* * *

 

Will is not sure what it is about the pale of water that makes him feel brittle, like an old rope that has been stretched too far, almost to breaking point, but the moment he stares down into the water, naked and exposed, he feels a stinging in his eyes he has not felt for years. Oh, he has cried from the pain of injuries, as a physical reaction to his abuse, but he enforced a no-crying ban on himself years ago, deciding there was no point in it. Why cry when there was never any hope of reprieve? Now, however, for some unforeseen reason, the sight of the water in front of him causes tears to pour from his eyes, and a guttural ache from deep in his torso forces itself out of him in a silent scream as he sobs.

Maybe it is the strange placement of this pale of water in this time and place, when he has finally been treated to some comfort and respect. Will’s issues with water are something which took him a long while to process and manage in his mind. Ironically enough, like the waves of the ocean, the memories of what one master had done to him many years ago has always come racing back to the shore, to the beach of his mind, disturbing his peace, at the sight of a body of water. He had to fight such a wave when he woke to John delivering to him the pale of water.

_Ridiculous,_ he berates himself, _that was years ago, get over it._

He reaches a shaky hand out for the cloth provided, dipping it into the water. It is warmer than he had expected, and it calms his nerves a bit knowing the water is not ice cold.

_A rough hand at his scalp, pushing him under, and under and under. He cannot breathe, he cannot fight this-_

Will shakes his head, desperately trying to force those memories away. A small hiccup leaves his throat as the sobs wrack his body, and he hopes that John is far away from the carriage, cannot hear him having a breakdown like he hasn’t had since his promise to himself.

As he runs the rag over his body, washing away weeks’ worth of grime and uncleanliness, he tries to gain control over himself, reasoning that he can allow himself just this once to let everything get the better of him, seeing as there have been some drastic changes in the last days.

He has the strange foreboding sense that he is entering a game of sorts, with some of the most dangerous players. But he has no clue how to prove himself. A lifetime of imprisonment and his confidence to act independently is completely shot. And he knows that on the path to that game he will have to bid John goodbye; he thinks that might be the hardest part. Never before has a person made him feel like someone worth caring for; John had called his deductions ‘brilliant’ and ‘amazing’; John has engaged him in conversation like an equal; John, despite his best efforts and Will’s insistence, cares for him. Part of him does not want to leave his carriage, wants to remain in here with John, and bathe in the man’s light. The room he has allowed for John in his mind is starting to look more and more like the inside of this carriage.

But it will not last, and tomorrow, he will have to play a game he is not sure he is prepared to play.

He allows himself this moment to be scared.                                                                                 

* * *

 

“You look better!” John remarks upon returning to the carriage a good half an hour later. It is true; Will’s skin is flushed pink from his scrubbing but is missing the layer of dirt it had held before. The man’s face is also red, and blotchy, but John decides not to comment. “Want my help again?”

“Please.” Will nods, sniffing.

John comes forward, shutting the doors of the carriage and casting them into low-light; that might make Will feel better about his nakedness.

“Right then….” He says, and they begin the process of dressing Will in his new clothes. By the time they have finished, the man looks much better; the light grey shirt and black trousers are clean, and they fit his body much better, not hanging off his frame like his old clothes had. There are even socks, and Will wiggles his feet at the strange feel of them after so long barefoot.

“You’ve got boots, too, but we can leave those for the morning.” John says, holding up one of the boots in question. Will observes it, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“You alright?” John asks, placing the boots to the side.

“Yes.” Will replies, too quickly, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

“Okay.” John nods, and they descend into an awkward silence.

John had thought Will had gone to sleep again, but the man suddenly speaks into the gathering darkness and the still silence. “John?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” Will says, and then turns over and says no more, his breathing eventually slowing as he slides into sleep.

“You’re welcome.” John mutters, and allows himself a small, sad smile.                                                                                  

* * *

 

Will cannot resist a peak out of the carriage shutters as the horse hooves resonate off stone, and the loud chatter of a bustling city begins to surround them. Outside, the light is bland, the sky grey, but that is not what interests Will. Instead, he observes the multitude of people who line the streets of the city of Appledore, some chatting, some selling their wares, some watching the retinue of Will’s carriage as it passes them by. For each and every one, a deduction comes flying at him, and Will winces, shutting the carriage shutters with a slam. He almost falls backwards as he does, the heavy weight of the leather boots which now protect his feet taking him by surprise.

He can feel John’s gaze on him as he breathes heavily, rapidly deleting things from his mind. When he opens his eyes again, his breathing is much calmer.

“Will, listen,” John begins, scratching the back of his neck. Obviously, he has given what he is about to say a lot of thought. “I’ll probably be asked to provide Lord Moriarty or King Charles with a report of your health, but after that, will be given my pay and escorted from the palace. But…there is a chance King Charles might allow me stay on as your personal physician, if I ask.”

Oh, how Will wants that. Wants that with a desperation he has not felt in years.

Part of him wishes he had never met John, for now he is extremely aware of how lonely he has been in life. Before, it had not bothered him; it had been the norm. But now he has been corrupted by John’s kindness, and it throws up red warnings in his brain: do not get attached. Will understands that John cannot be a long-term friend for him. He has never had a friend, and thus has never had a bargaining chip with which to be threatened. All the hurt he has been exposed to has been directed at him and him only; there has never been the threat of anyone else getting hurt. And now that he is about to come up against a king and Moriarty…. Will wants John to be far away from any hurt that may be caused to him. Any hurt to himself, that is fine. He is used to it. But he will not see a man like John put in a dangerous situation because of him; he could not live with that thought. Slaves are always alone, because they have no other choice. And John’s presence does not change that.

“That won’t be necessary.” He says, before John can say anything else. He forces himself to maintain eye contact with the man, to make his words sound sincere. “Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

“Oh.” John says, his face disappointed, and Will looks away, like a coward. _Alone will protect you, too, John._

They ride in silence for a few moments, the bustle of the city continuing around them, before John speaks up. “Just know this. Friends protect people. That’s something I’ve learnt, from my life, and I understand that might not be something you’re familiar with, and _god,_ I’m sorry Will, but I can’t fake it any longer: that makes me _so sad._ You do not deserve to be alone, so please, just let me see what I can do?”

Will is left speechless. He does not know what to say. His reasoning seems logical, but then again, so does John’s, and he is so _tempted_ by the man’s words, by the possibility of something he has never had. But overwhelming terror wins out in the end, and he silently shakes his head.

John straightens his spine, nodding. “Alright.” He says, although it very much isn’t.

Little do both men know that the decision will be made for them, in the end.                                                                                

* * *

 

John understands, he really does. But thistles of disappointment sting at him as Will all but confirms that this will never become the friendship he had hoped it could be. But he cannot blame Will for that, that would not be fair to the man, no matter how much John wants him to see that alone is much more dangerous than belonging. John would not have made it off the battlefield alive were it not for the comradeship of his fellow soldiers.

But Will has always been alone and is very much used to it. John cannot deny that, no matter how sad that makes him.

The carriage is making its ascension up to the palace, and John realises this will be the last time he spends with Will alone. He observes the man; his chains, his shaved head, his thin frame, and tries not to imagine what he might look like were John allowed to help him. The person he might become were he allowed freedom.

_Stop it,_ he berates himself, _you cannot help this man. Get over it. Just because you’ve had this incessant need to help people ever since your sister died._

John sucks in a deep breath, blowing it out through his cheeks. This is dangerous ground for him to be stepping, so he lets it slip away, and simply sits there in silence with Will, until the carriage finally pulls up in the courtyard of the palace, and the doors open into stark sunlight, and King Charles Magnussen awaits.                                                               

* * *

 

Will looks to John as the carriage down fly open, mouth opening and closing. He is grasped with this sudden desperation, this realisation that John might be right; he doesn’t have to be alone. More than anything, he doesn’t want John to leave him. But can he go back on his words now?

Just as he goes to speak, Moran appears in the open doorway. “Get out.” He orders at Will, gesturing behind him. He points at John. “You too, Watson.”

John and Will share a brief look before John climbs out of the carriage, holding out a hand to help Will. “Come on.” He says under his breath. Will accepts the helping hand, legs feeling heavy in the leather boots, but does not look at John, focusing on gaining his balance on the cobblestones of the castle courtyard. Will shivers; it is bitingly cold out; the castle is obviously at some altitude. When he looks up, he feels extremely out of his depth.

Appledore castle looms all around him, the courtyard encased in the building itself. Worn dark stone reaches seemingly to the sky as various towers aim to beat their peers at stretching as high as they can. Gargoyles bare their teeth, judging those below. Directly in front of him is a wide stone staircase leading to a wide-open doorway. Sauntering down those steps is the one and only Lord James Moriarty.

“Moran! Made it here safely, I see. And on time.” Moriarty remarks, and Moran nods, bowing his head to his master. Will stares at Moriarty, risking punishment for insubordination for a moment. That same cloak of concealment is around him once again, Will cannot read _anything_ about the man. All he is is jewels and fur and a wide, predatory smile. That same green amulet is around his neck again.

“Yes, My Lord.” Moran says. “The slave was kept sedated and confined as ordered. Watson here has been looking after him.” John bows at the mention of his name, and Moriarty’s dark eyes watch his every moment. Then they suddenly turn on Will.

“Nice clothes, darling. What do you say?” He says, eyes flicking up and down Will’s body lazily.

“Thank you, Sir.” Will says, bowing his head. Moriarty hums, considering him some more. “King Charles will be very pleased to see you.” Will does not comment; he keeps up the traditional slave attitude: silent subservience. Moriarty turns, gesturing for them to follow.

“Come. You too, Watson. King Charles will not be kept waiting.”

John briefly glances to Will before moving to walk beside him, a hand out to support him should he need it. Ever the healer.

Moriarty strides ahead of them, fur trimmed cloak licking at his ankles. Moran stand closely behind, and on all sides they are surrounded by an armed guard. Will cannot understand it, and his heart begins to pound faster and faster. Why all this protection for _him?_ His deductive abilities are certainly something which makes him valuable, but not to this extent.

There is something else at play here, and as they process into the castle, and into a gapingly large ante-chamber, Will has the daunting feeling that he is soon to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, the plot will really kick off, i realise these first five are really the set up to all that will happen soon, and the introduction to characters etc., but i thought it necessary, and promise chapter six, Revelations, will change the game :D
> 
> Thank you for reading, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> See you on Friday


	6. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to update this earlier, but Wimbledon drew me in!  
> Apologies for any mistakes, I'm not feeling 100% today, and proof reading properly was like trying to wade through thick custard in my brain!  
> Enjoy, though, I have been eagerly waiting to post this one...

Large double doors swing open, and Will is being led into the lion’s den.

Stained glass windows paint the stone floor in multicolour hues, and a great chandelier lit with seemingly hundreds of candles hangs from spindly tie-beams in the expansive ceiling above. Dark marble pillars line the hall, their stone cold and unyielding. Will has time to take this all in as they make their way down the great hall, and he has never seen somewhere so cavernously lavish. He might have been more awe-inspired had his attention not been brought to the man who sits upon a large wooden throne at the top of the hall. He is a thin man, his cheekbones almost gaunt, but he is not consumed by the rich clothes and jewels which adorn him; he is master to them, as he is master to thousands, wearing them with a dignified warning, as if to say: do not try to cross me.

Will tries to keep his eyes averted past a first cursory glance at King Charles, and once they reach the man’s throne, he is shoved to his knees by Moran, hitting the hard stone with a small huff of breath.

“Your Majesty.” Lord Moriarty says, bowing. Will can feel everyone around him bow too, the armour of the guard clanking as they do.

“Lord Moriarty.” King Charles says, and his voice is like liquid lye. “Well, well, well. Let’s see what you have brought me.”

Moriarty snaps his fingers and Moran grabs Will by the back of his shirt, dragging him forward to Magnussen’s booted feet before Will can manage to gain his balance. He lands with a thump, palms taking the brunt of the fall. Then there is a strangely damp hand at his chin, pulling his face upwards, until he is forced to come face to face with King Charles Magnussen.

Up close, Will can make out the wrinkles around the man’s eyes, the strangely pale pallor of his skin, _Appledore is so far north there is not as much sun as Sherrinford, Magnussen has a case of long-term lack of exposure to the sun,_ he immediately deduces, and as the man bares his teeth, smile wide and pearly white, Will can smell the faint tang of dried fruits on his breath.

“I see what you mean about the eyes.” Magnussen says, speaking to Moriarty.

“And the cheekbones.” Moriarty says. “And if you imagine the hair then…”

“It’s almost perfect.” Magnussen finishes for him. His smile widens, and he licks at them with his tongue, the action almost perversely slow. Will blinks. Magnussen is obviously trying to shock him, and whilst Will is rather disgusted, he has seen worse. Although he fears the man is only getting started. His chin is released then, and he is pushed back onto the floor.

“And his health? How has that been?” Magnussen asks, his eyes flicking to John.

“There are the signs of long-term neglect, he is, for example, extremely underweight, Your Majesty.” John replies. “But apart from some old scarring and some superficial bruising, he is not in any mortal danger.”

Magnussen nods, running a finger across his lips. “Very well. Let’s see what your sister has to say about this, Moriarty.”

Moriarty nods and gestures for Moran to grab Will, who is forcefully grabbed by the back of shirt once again and pulled to his feet. Before he can be taken away, Magnussen reaches out and grabs his hand. He strokes the back of it with his thumb. “I cannot wait for us to spend some time together.”

Will dares a glance at the man’s face, and sees that same predatory smile plastered over it. There is also a sense of anticipation in those eyes, and he looks at Will as Moriarty had done in the Darkling Woods when Will had first been kidnapped; as if he knows something about the man that Will does not. He and Moriarty had commented upon his physical appearance as if it was something familiar to them, as though they had memorised every detail and could recite it back to him. And where is he being taken, to Moriarty’s sister? This all makes no sense! Magnussen hasn’t even asked him to deduce anything! As he is dragged away, he casts a desperate look back to John, who is watching him, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed.

“Watson!” Magnussen suddenly says, “Go with them. I am sure that… _Will,_ will be in need of a physician after Janine has seen him.”

Will should not be as relieved as he is; he had wanted John far away from here, did not want him to become involved in the dismal world that is his life, but it was naïve of him to think that was a decision he could make. _Stupid!_                                                                                   

* * *

 

He is being led out into a side room through a small door, and then from there, through corridor after corridor, all stark stone which seems to radiate cold air. He shivers, but he can feel John behind him, which makes him feel better.

Moriarty strides ahead, seemingly swaggering with glee. He keeps turning to smile at Will, who meets his gaze with resilience. His hackles are raised, this situation is unlike any he has ever been, and he can feel his defences rising.

“Will.” John whispers to him as they move speedily along. “Listen, I’ve heard rumours about Janine Moriarty, about what she can do.”

Will risks a glance back at him, eyebrows furrowed. _What?_ He mouths wordlessly. John seems scared, and it makes the hairs raise on the back of his neck.

“Look, I don’t know,” John says, glancing to Moriarty and then back, “But just…be strong, alright?”

Before Will can ask anymore, they come to a small antechamber, and Moriarty brings them to a halt. The light is much dimmer here, and Moriarty’s eyes seem to gleam in the gloom.

The man knocks on the closed oak door in front of them, which swings open slowly, and seemingly on its own. John sucks in a breath and looks like he desperately want to say something.

“In you go!” Moriarty gestures at Will to enter the room. “Sister dearest will see you now!”

Will hesitates. “What is she going to do?”

Moriarty laughs, his head tipping back. When he finished, his face grows suddenly serious, eyes dark and unyielding. “She will decide your future.”

Will blinks. Moriarty is speaking in riddles, and it is infuriating.

“Well go on!” The man all but screams, and Will finds himself propelled into the room by the sheer force of Moriarty’s dominance. He turns, and gets one last glance back at John, face desperate and concerned, before the door slams shut and he is plunged into darkness.

For a few moments, silence reigns, but then out of the gloom a figure emerges, her blood red velvet gown catching Will’s attention. Will remains silent, careful.

“Hello, William.” She says, and her voice lilts like Moriarty’s, although it seems to echo around the room.

And that is when her eyes begin to glow a golden colour.

Only now do Magnussen’s words register. He had been so preoccupied with thinking about John he had not precipitated the danger he was about to be thrown into. John had been summoned with him for a reason, a reason he thinks he is about to find out. He had thought Magnussen’s great hall was the lion’s den, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe it is the Lady Janine’s dark chamber.

There is a sudden flash of golden light, and Will is thrown into a dark abyss.                                                                                    

* * *

 

Moriarty strides off to who knows where, giggling a little under his breath, and John turns on Moran, who stares disinterestedly into the far distance.

“What the hell is going on?” Respect be damned. John has no idea what is going on here apart from knowing that Will is inside that room alone with Janine Moriarty, whose infamous reputation precedes her. Who knows what she could be doing to Will! And why? There is much more going on here than John had first thought, and he has is starting to feel out of his depth.

“That is none of your business.” Moran replies.

“It sort of is,” John replies, and he points at the door, “Will is my patient, so if there is any harm that may occur to him, I need to know, because I have to do my best, as his physician, to make sure he is well.”

Moran looks unconvinced, so John steps closer and lowers his voice. “Look, you and I have both heard the rumours about what Janine Moriarty can do-”

“-Then there’s nothing more for you to demand.” Moran shrugs, and goes back to staring dispassionately.

“Oh _god._ ” John hisses and turns to start pacing back and forth in the small antechamber. It is not long before he can hear screaming, and he turns, wide eyed, to the door in front of him.

“Don’t try it.” Moran says, stepping in front of John and blocking the door with his large frame. “if you want to look after your _patient,_ then you’d best not be stepping out of turn, Watson.”

John breathes heavily. There is nothing he can do. Another scream comes from behind the door. There is nothing he can do.                                                                                

* * *

 

Images flash before Will’s eyes, and he feels as if he is pinned to a heavy rock, unable to move against the hard ground beneath him, and not even able to close his eyes against the torrent which assaults him.

He realises that what he is seeing are memories; memories of his time with multiple owners, memories of pain and misery, and bitter acceptance of his place in life. His first memory is there too, the memory of hands and a horse and a fur cloak. But the memories are not just visual, and emotions rise and fall as quickly as the images, and it is _agonising._

But it only gets worse, and he feels this enormous pressure weighing down on his mind, as if its trying to force its way through a small gap. Will could be screaming, he is not too sure, at this point up could be down, but it feels as if his head is exploding into a million pieces as the pressure forces its way through, and suddenly it is like entering into a large cave, cavernous and gaping, and filled with memories Will is sure he has never lived through before.

He is racing through air, upon the back of his horse, Gladstone, the wind blowing in his hair and a smile on his face. His brother is behind him, calling out a name, it could be his, but it does not sound like ‘Will’, ever the careful and responsible one out of the two of them. His name alludes him, but he knows that is his brother…

He is struggling to hold a sword, patient hands belonging to a man with kind eyes helping him to raise it and slice at the practice dummy with its blunted tip. He has never liked the sword as a weapon, but the man is patient and ensures that he gets the dummy directly in the chest.

He is sat at a desk, a woman with eyes just like his instructing him on his letters, watching patiently as he scrawls out his name. S H E R… Or maybe not, that certainly isn’t his name, although he had been sure it was… Another woman, his proper tutor, he knows, sits by in silence, happy to let this mother have some precious time with her son.  

He is standing, head bowed, hands clasped, in front of his father, a man who towers over him and booms insults at him. _Pathetic, worthless, no son of mine…._ He feels no love from his father, and instead looks to his mother, who sits, hand over her mouth, fire in her eyes, but unable to stop the tirade her husband is bringing down on their son. No one can stop King Siger Holmes of Sherrinford, not when he is in full tirade. Will doesn’t even understand what he has done wrong; he simply saw that Lord Wilkes was cheating on his wife, the signs were there, clear as day…

He is seated in a carriage, and crowds dash by the window, cheering and clapping. His brother sits opposite him, inspecting his fingernails, not at all interested in the people outside. Will leans forward, but the mass of people is too much, his sense overwhelmed, and he sits back. His brother watches him, eyes narrowed. He says something, but Will cannot remember what….

He is in a large chamber, and there is a comfortable mattress under him, and someone is singing a lullaby, and he feel safe and warm…

He stands on the battlements of their palace, the whole of Sherrinford laid out before him, as if it has presented itself so perfectly just for him. He closes his eyes, tips his head back, enjoys the sun on his face…

The pressure is there again, and it pushes him towards certain memories; it pushes him to see the faces of his father, his mother, and his brother, and it forces him to go back to that first memory, of riding on Gladstone, his brother calling his name.

“Sherlock!”

No, _a_ name. That is not his name. the pressure builds again, and he is sucked into the memory of his lesson with his mother. He is spelling out his name once again: S H E R L O C K.

No! That is not his name! These are not his memories, they cannot be! How could he have forgotten this, whatever this is?

“What is this?” He attempts to shout, but his words are lost in this miasma.

The pressure seems to laugh, and Will is suddenly forced forward into a new memory: he is running down a long bright corridor, dodging servants who quickly bow as he rushes past. He can hear his brother again, calling his name.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Get back here!”

_Oh._

William. Sherlock.

He had forgotten that name, the one he had chosen because it was interesting, had adopted his first when his whole identity was taken from him, kept it as a homage to a life he was forced away from. He had forgotten all of this, or rather, it had become irrelevant, swept away by years of harsh treatment, lost to early childhood. He had forgotten what he used to be called. Sherlock.

But that is not all, and the pressure forces him to go through his memories once again, picking up hints of his lavish lifestyle, his high status, his family home, or rather, palace, and finally, it takes him to that first memory again, of riding fast, limitless. The pressure strains the memory out, the effort seeming to scald his mind, burning him from the inside. In the memory, he has finally slowed Gladstone down, coming to a stop on the edge of a cliff near a raging waterfall overlooking the ocean. The sea lies still, little waves attempting to rise up in rebellion, but falling short of crashing down. He loves this view, its simplicity, its tempestuousness; sometimes calm, sometimes angry. He loves riding here.

He can hear hoofbeats thundering towards him. That must be Mycroft. _Mycroft._ The name floats to the surface of his mind and settles, as though it has always been there. He goes to turn, but the pressure is insistent in whisking him away.

It hurts, physically and emotionally.

Will might still be screaming, he isn’t sure, but the pressure seems satisfied, and it slowly leaves his mind, and he gets just a glimpse of the real world, of Janine Moriarty’s eyes slowly fading from gold to brown, before his own roll into the back of his head, and he drops to the floor, unconscious.                                                                                      

* * *

 

Janine supports herself on the small table by the arrow-slit window, breathing heavily. James steps forward from the shadows, face expectant. Janine smiles up at him. Nodding.

“It’s him.”

James smiles, his teeth glinting in the low light, and saunters towards the unconscious man on the floor. Janine grabs a goblet of wine from the table, gulping it down desperately. James crouches down next to the man now confirmed to be Prince William Sherlock Scott Holmes of Sherrinford, taking his chin in his hand and caressing the man’s face.

“Sherly, darling, it’s been too long.” He says. “You’ll have to thank me later for finding you.”

Janine watches as her brother peacocks proudly, dropping the other man’s chin and rising slowly. James always was such a drama queen.

“Magnussen will be waiting.” She says, voice low and rough from her mental escapade.

“I’m sure a little tardiness won’t matter.” James says, heading towards the oak door. “Not now that we have delivered him Siger Holmes’s long-lost son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> And thank you to all who have subscribed, or left a comment and kudos, it really is greatly appreciated!  
> See you on Friday, have a good weekend!


	7. Sherlock?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning, Magnussen acts unpleasantly with Will (or, Sherlock) in this chapter. Nothing explicit, but I thought I'd put the warning out just in case. 
> 
> Thank you for the comments and kudos so far; seeing the count go up with each upload is really encouraging! 
> 
> Enjoy this chapter.

John’s blood pressure has been steadily rising with every scream that has come from behind the closed door. Moran has been glaring at him for the past half an hour, as John’s pacing has gotten faster and more agitated.

“Stop it.” The man spits.

“I can’t.” John shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Not knowing he’s in that much pain.”

“Calm down, Watson.” Moran says. “Why do you care so much anyway? This was just a temporary job for you.”

John bites his lip, remaining silent. Damn. The man is right. John needs to get himself in check. If he is honest, his worry for Will has taken him by surprise, too. He knew it would, the moment he saw the scrawny slave trying to defend himself in the woods, that first time they had met, but the scale of this situation, being here in Appledore Castle, having had an audience with Magnussen and now being taken to Janine Moriarty, it has propelled John’s worry into a new dimension. He does not want to see this man hurt. And right now, he feels like Will’s only ally. But he needs to hide that, remain neutral. Moran already seems suspicious, and John doesn’t need him snitching to Moriarty and for this to catch on.

“I just want to be paid proper, that’s all.” He tries to defend himself. “Don’t want the boy too banged up or else I might not be paid in full.”

Moran considers him for a moment, then huffs and goes back to leaning casually against the door.

It is not long after that that hurried footsteps can be heard coming from behind the door, and Moran has just enough time to move out of the way before Moriarty comes flying out, eyes wide, smile plastered across his face.

“Moran, you know what to do.” He says enigmatically, before rushing past.

Moran nods, seeming to read something more in Moriarty’s words, as his spine straightens, and he moves quickly into the room. He re-appears only a moment later, and unconscious but seemingly unharmed Will in his arms.

“Oh god.” John says, and tries to move towards him, but Moran pushes past.

“In a moment.”

John follows the man as they stride through so many doors and so many corridors it is almost impossible to keep count. The finally reach a winding set of stairs, and Moran makes carrying a dead weight in your arms whilst trying to keep your balance as the steps twist every upwards. Finally, they reach the top, and off a small landing come to an oak door guarded by a single solider, his face obscured by his helmet.

He opens the door for them as Moran strides into the room, moving over to a four-poster bed which occupies the left side of the room. The room is spacious, with enough room for its own dining table, as well as a fireplace to the right side of the room. By the bed stands a wardrobe, as well as a screen to change behind if needed. The room is lit by two large windows, one by the dining table and another by the bed, which are both paned with red and blue glass. There is a large tapestry on the wall by the fireplace, depicting a hunter on his horse, bloodhound by his side. The hunter has an uncanny resemblance to Magnussen.

Moran places Will down on the bed, then steps away, allowing John to take over. The healer notices with slight bemusement that his medical kit has been delivered to the room and is stood waiting for him on a small table by the bed.

“See to him. Summon for Lord Moriarty when he wakes.” Moran orders, before he leaves the room, door clicking shut behind him.

John instantly darts over to Will, moving him so he is lying on his side, making him as comfortable as he can in his chains. Although this plush bed must make a pleasant difference to what the man is normally used to.

“Will?” He calls, but the man is unresponsive. His pulse is slightly elevated, and his forehead is creased, but otherwise there are no signs of physical injury or any serious damage done. So why was he screaming so badly?

John looks around, unsure. He has absolutely no clue what is going on here. Moriarty had seemed so happy, and very urgent to get back to King Charles, so obviously something significant has been discovered. John has heard the tales of Janine, how she can delve into minds and dig new trenches in the beds of people’s memories, awakening new ones and recovering those long lost. What is in Will’s mind that is so important it deserves the attention of a king?

With nothing else to do but wait for Will to wake, John pulls up one of the chairs from the dining table next to the bed and sits in the heavy silence.                                                                                  

* * *

 

Will’s dreams are not exactly dreams, but nor are they nightmares; they are the aftereffects of having someone stick their fingers into your mind and mix it around a bit. Or rather, a lot.

He sees a horse, a palace made of white stone, a boy older than him with ginger hair and a round face. This boy means something to him, he has a connection to him…oh yes, that’s right, that’s his brother. Mycroft.

Is he real? Or a figment of this dream?

Will does not know. He does not know anything! His name might not even be Will, for all he knows he should be going by ‘Sherlock’. But who is he?

Will struggles to fight his way to consciousness. He wants to get out of this mental miasma; it is like being in the middle of a blizzard, naked and unprotected. He pushes with all his might, fighting the flurry.

He doesn’t remember waking up.                                                                                

* * *

 

Will suddenly gasps, sitting up on the bed. John is startled from his stupor, and almost falls from his chair. He catches himself before he can, and immediately his attention is on a very pale and wide-eyed Will.

“Will? Can you hear me? It’s John.”

Will is panting, sucking in air as if he has just emerged from deep water. His eyes are far away and distant, and he does not reply to John’s calls, even when he tries again, and again.

John does not want to touch the man, it might startle him and make things a whole lot worse, but he is at odds for anything else to do. He has never seen someone like this; Will is near-hyperventilating, his eyes flicking from one thing to another, never settling. Suddenly they slam shut, and he goes completely still.

John bites his lip. He is supposed to summon Moran, now that Will is awake, but he is reluctant to, with the man in this condition. He leans forward, and very carefully places a hand over Will’s. The man’s skin is cold to the touch, and he is shaking a little. Shock? He tries calling Will’s name again, but to no avail. What is going on here?                                                                                 

* * *

 

Will slams his eyes shut, searching out for the order in his mind, for the rooms, the basements, the cellars.

But once he gets there, everything is in disarray. A hurricane has hit his mind, and there are doors flung open, some pulled right out of the frame, and his memories are running wild. Angry voices echo down the corridors, the sounds of far-off screams resonate off the walls. Will steadies himself on the wall as the rooms tip and turn, more memories getting unhinged. They are being chased by new memories, seemingly from another life. But they _must_ be his. Unless Janine something implanted them in his mind? But that doesn’t seem right. She had been extracting them, not placing them, and it had been _painful._ New names, new places, new feelings he is not sure he has felt before; comfort, warmth, belonging. This is not good. He cannot manage without order. The memories, their noises, their smells, their _pain,_ seem to build, becoming a cacophony of disorder.

“STOP!” He screams, putting his hands over his ears.

And then everything goes still. The air around him seems thick, laced with moments caught in time. He lets out a long, deep breath. Alright. Better.

He is shaking with the effort, but eventually he manages to get the necessary memories back in their rooms, locked tight away, where the pain cannot hurt him. Good. Now he has more control.

He carefully places the memories of John back in their place, closing the carriage doors behind them, and finally, he turns to these new memories, which await him, expectantly, as if they need him to understand their significance, for him to take them on and carry their burden and all that they now mean for him. Maybe he should be grateful, that some hope of a different life, out of the gutters of society, has been granted to him, but this new person, this _Sherlock,_ he does not know who he is. All he is, is Will. And all Will is, is a slave.

But he forces himself to live through those memories again and tries to make sense of this tempest.                                                                                  

* * *

 

John can hear loud voices getting closer and closer, and he steels himself for the men about to erupt through the door. He stands from his chair as King Charles strides in, Moriarty close behind him, and bows quickly. Moran swaggers in as well, plyers in hand, for some reason.

“Your Highness, he has not woken yet.” John tries to explain. “Well, I think he did, but I’m not quite sure.” He has no idea what Will is doing, but the man has been sat, eyes closed, for a good half an hour, completely oblivious to the world around him. The king must have gotten impatient.

Magnussen sits down on the bed, on the opposite side to John, and lays a large hand on Will’s bony shoulder. He strokes it, touching Will like he is a porcelain doll.

“William?” He speaks gently, and John shifts uncomfortably on his feet. Moriarty leans casually against the four-poster bed, but his eyes are bright and excited.

Will suddenly comes back with a gasp, eyes flying open. He almost falls forward, and John goes to catch him, but Magnussen gets there first, supporting the man with an arm across his torso. “There you are.” The man says. “Where did you go?”

“Wh-what?” Will says, blinking rapidly. He seems to register Magnussen’s close presence and tries to wiggle his way out of the man’s grip, but Magnussen holds on tight, stroking his thumb over Will’s shoulder blades. “What did she do?” Will asks, voice rough.

“Oh, Janine?” Moriarty says, perking up. “She just had a little scout around in your brain, recovered things that might have been lost, and we’ve finally found you.”

John frowns. _Found him?_

Moriarty leans forward, gripping the four-poster so he can lean down to Will, “It’s so very good to see you, Sherlock.”

_Sherlock?_ John thinks, looking to Will, who looks disturbed but not confused. John knows of only one person called Sherlock; he is rather famous, or infamous, really….and widely believed to be dead…

“Really, it’s been years. Years and years.” Moriarty continues, standing up straight and crossing his arms. “You and I were children the last time I saw you. You were such a _small_ little thing, but so very bright.”

“Stop it.” Will whispers, but if to Moriarty or to Magnussen, and his very intimate grip on him, John is not sure.  

“Of course, everyone was _heartbroken_ when you disappeared. Everyone but your father. But oh, how your mother cried, and your brother… which was very amusing because Mycroft was always so odiously uptight about everything. Still is, actually….” He laughs.

“Stop it.” Will spits.

“But you were his weak point…. Even when your father stopped searching for you, Mycroft would send out as many men as he could without arousing suspicion. And now, well, he does his best, but being regent takes its toll and there’s not much he can…so now I’ve got you! And we’ve been looking for so long, really, it’s been quite the struggle! I’ve had to befriend so many awfully boring people,” He snorts, “Of course I was never going to give those men who had you any money for you, just in case you weren’t who I thought you were….but it was there in your eyes and in that big old brain of yours, Sherlock, I knew it had to be you!” Moriarty says.

“Stop it.” Will says, shaking his head.

“Well a thank you would be nice, Sherly, for taking you away from that horrible old life of chains and _servitude_ , although I suppose you’re used to it.” Moriarty says, rolling his eyes.

“Stop it, I don’t know what you’re talking about, stop it!” Will says, voice rising louder than John has ever heard him speak.

“Oh, but I think you do, really.” Moriarty says, and he leans forward again, face serious. “Deep down, in that brain of yours, you know what’s going on but you’re forcing yourself not to admit it. Well WAKE UP!” he suddenly screams, and John startles. “Because now we’ve got you, you owe me, Sherlock. You. Owe. Me.”

Will’s breathing is erratic, and John decides he has had enough of Moriarty’s apparent taunting of the other man, and steps in. “My Lord, please, as his physician, this is not doing him any good.” Him. Will. Or, is it Sherlock now? Is Will really who Moriarty claims he is? If so, this situation has drastically changed, and John tries to ignore the bitter sting of disappointment that he now must seem extremely drab and boring compared to the world Will has found himself flung into.

“Doctor Watson is right, James.” Magnussen drawls, stroking a hand over Will’s shoulder. “The poor thing must be so confused.” He turns Will, forcing him to face him, their faces strangely close. “Just know this, Sherlock: you won’t have to bear these chains any longer. I will free you and you will be treated like you deserve to be treated.”

Magnussen strokes Will’s face and then, revoltingly, he licks Will’s cheek, seeming to savour the moment. Will tenses, but Magnussen’s tight grip means he cannot escape it. John feels anger flare up in his stomach, his whole mind screaming at him that this is wrong! These men mean Will no good; they might have freed him from a life of slavery, but they are imprisoning him, nonetheless.

Magnussen pulls away, and Will shakes his head. “My name is not Sherlock.”

“Oh, it is, my dear.” Magnussen says, with a pearly smile. “And you will win me your father’s throne.”

John is desperate just to shout, _What the hell is going on here?,_ but he needs to keep his head down, keep in his role as physician, if he has any chance of sticking by Will’s side. The man is in desperate need of his only ally now, despite John’s desperation to shake him and ask him who the hell he is.

“But we will discuss that properly another time.” Magnussen says, and he finally relinquishes his hold on Will, who moves away from him, to the very edge of the bed. “For now, rest, and enjoy the comforts you have undoubtedly missed all these years. Doctor Watson,” Magnussen turns to John, “I have a new position of employment for you. You will serve as Sherlock’s personal physician; having served both myself and James loyally, you are an excellent choice for the job.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” John says, bowing his head. He glances to Will, but the man’s face is unreadable; John wonders if he is annoyed, he had not wanted John to stick around, but now it seems he is stuck with John, whether he likes it or not. John is relieved beyond relief.

“Your Majesty.” Moran says, stepping forwards and holding out the plyers for Magnussen to take.

“Ah yes,” the king says, and he takes the plyers in hand. “Hold out your wrists for me, my dear.”

Will hesitates for a moment, but Magnussen’s gaze is unwavering in its intensity, and he eventually holds out his chained wrists.

“Good, very good.” Magnussen murmurs, and he lines up the plyers, cutting through the chain in one fell swoop. John tenses when he brings the plyers to the cuffs around Will’s wrists, cutting through the metal dangerously close to Will’s skin. The same process is carried out on the chains around his ankles, and finally, after years of wearing them, Will is free of his chains. He holds his wrists up after the chains are gone, as if he somehow does not know how to manage their lighter weight. John is aware of the significance of Magnussen breaking Will’s chains: he is the one to save him, and in freeing him, he places his own sick ownership over the man. John steadies himself with a deep breath, wishing both men would just _leave._

“There we are.” Magnussen says, passing the plyers back to Moran, who also collects the remains of the chains, and leaves with a short bow. “Now, my dear. Rest, eat something, bathe, and I will be seeing you soon.”

“That’s it?” Will says, “You’re just going to leave me here without explaining anything else?”

“Oh, we will explain.” Moriarty nods. “We just have some very important things to discuss first, things you don’t need to worry your head over.”

Magnussen moves to stroke Will’s head, but Will, frustrated and angry and very much at the end of his tether, moves out of the way, putting his hands up as if to push Magnussen. Magnussen easily grabs his wrist and pulls him closer to him again. Will fights against it, but Magnussen’s hold is tight, easily restraining him.

“Oh,” the man says, “I do like them rebellious.”

“Get off of me!” Will hisses, but Magnussen’s pleasure seems to deepen, and he licks his lips, looking at Will as if he is a feast to be devoured. John clenches his hands into fists, desperate to interject.

“I will have you soon, my dear.” Magnussen whispers, before he finally relents, letting go of Will and rising from the bed. Both he and Moriarty turn to leave, but as they do, Moriarty turns and gives Will a wide grin.

“I’ve got you, Sherlock.” He says, and then he is gone.

“Jeez!” John says, letting out a long breath and running both hands through his hair. “What the _hell_ was that?”

Will sits still on the bed, face pale, eyes downcast, hands to his mouth, fingertips just touching his lips.

“Are you alright, Will? What Magnussen did to you…”

“John, please,” Will says quietly, not looking at him. “May I have a moment alone?”

“Oh, yes of course.” John says, embarrassed. _John, you moron, give the man some space!_ “I, err, don’t think I should leave you alone, but I’ll umm… I’ll make a fire, alright? It’s freezing in here.”

Will absentmindedly nods, but he is already lost to thought. John moves away from the bed and gives Will one more backwards glance before turning to the fireplace, rubbing his hands together. “Right…”

He hopes that Will will explain all this once he is feeling up to it; John is sure he has reached the right conclusion, something that makes his stomach drop like lead in surprise and shock, but he needs confirmation from the one man at the centre of all of this conspiracy and secrecy.

A man who is apparently not just ‘Will’, but is Prince William Sherlock Scott Holmes of Sherrinford, the long-lost and, for some, long-dead son.                                                                                      

* * *

 

The guard bows respectfully as King Charles and Lord Moriarty exit the chambers, making their way down the spiral staircase. He looks up to ensure they are long gone, before he removes the helmet that covers most of his face, leaving only his mouth visible; there are slits for his eyes. It is heavy and uncomfortable, and he welcomes the fresh air on his scalp, running his fingers through dark hair now scattered with white streaks. He is getting old, and the burden of his mission has left its mark on him physically. But now, for the first time in a long while, he lets a smile grace his face.

He has finally found him, when for so long he had secretly harboured the fear he was long dead.

Sherlock.

He hears footsteps approaching, and he quickly replaces his helmet, no longer Greg Lestrade, but a simple solider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!
> 
> See you on Friday.


	8. The past revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise extra chapter this week! I wanted chapters nine and ten to fall either side of the weekend, and so I've decided to post chapter eight early! This chapter took me a long time to write, as I wanted to get it right, but I think it's the best it can be. John and Sherlock need to talk through some things! 
> 
> Enjoy!

Will’s mind is racing, a million thoughts speeding through and then circling back round again, constantly on loop and constantly pestering him. He is desperate to wash, he knows that, after having Magnussen’s hands and his _tongue_ on him, but he needs to sort this out now, or else he will lose himself to Moriarty and Magnussen’s scheming and plotting.

He knows that those memories he has now are real. He has spent most of his life trying not to feel, to block out emotions and to therefore block out weakness, but there is an innate feeling inside of him on this occasion that he cannot ignore, which calls to him from those memories. He knows he lived them, because those emotions he felt then have become part of the remembrance. And their intensity he knows is real, because it is the very thing he stifles every time he fights against the world in which he exists. Or rather, existed.

In this case, emotion has proved the confirming factor. It is slightly ironic.

And whilst those memories and emotions are his, he is touching them through a pane of glass. He does not feel like William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Sherlock Holmes is trapped in the past, Will is the man who exists now. He does not know what Sherlock likes, what he does not like, how he would handle the situation with Moriarty and Magnussen. He just…does not know what to do. Will has never had to make a serious decision in his life, they have all been made for him, and now there is another person in his head, a person who could have been, and now it is up to him to decide whether this person ever will be? For if he really is the man behind the glass pane, Sherlock Holmes, Prince of Sherrinford, a title which he can barely make sense of yet, then he must want to be him, mustn’t he? A prince is better than a slave, is it not? Although, he technically is not a slave anymore. But he certainly is not a prince. The way Moriarty and Magnussen talk about him, even they do not believe it. It is in the blood but certainly not in the character; they see him as weak, and Will is embarrassed to admit it but in this circumstance he is.

He cannot make that decision now, and so, he decides he will not decide. He is…. not ready, for something so life changing.                                                                                  

* * *

 

The fire is crackling away in the fireplace when Will returns to reality, and he must make a noise as he shifts on the bed, because John suddenly turns and looks at him from where he is crouched by the fire, log in hand.

John, who is still here, and will be here indefinitely, now Magnussen has commanded he stay.

It seems like Will has run out of luck: stuck here in a nest of vipers, and John stuck with him. The temptation that had grasped Will just before leaving the carriage is back, and it has grown larger, from a puddle to a pond. He doesn’t _want_ John to leave. But this is not about what he wants, it never has been. The situation has escalated from the worry of his everyday life of pain and misery as a slave to a new level of uncertainty and untrodden land. The only thing he can think to do now is to drive John away; it is like fighting against the current of the sea, but he shuts out the desperation and the desire for an ally in this fight, and instead goes on the defensive.

“Hi.” John says, coming towards him, but keeping his distance. “You alright?”

Will closes his eyes for a moment, preparing for battle, before opening them, projecting and ice-cold glare at John.

“Your desire to become a healer stemmed from your need to help people, and that need stemmed from the fact that you couldn’t save your brother when he died, tragically and suddenly.”

John blinks, face draining of colour. “Excuse me?”

“You see a bit of your brother in me; defenceless, young, _vulnerable,_ and so you have attached yourself to me in an attempt to assuage your guilt. You think that if you can try and help me then you can stop punishing yourself for letting your brother die.”

John’s cheek twitches, the muscles in his jaw working. His hands clench and unclench into fists.

_There,_ Will thinks, _that’s done it._ He looks away, waiting expectantly for the sound of biting vitriol, and then the thumping of John’s boots as the man leaves. But it never comes. Only John’s heavy breathing can be heard. The man takes a step forward.

“You’re right.” He says, and Will’s head shoots up, meeting the man’s eyes. John does not look angry, but rather he looks sad. “I was not able to able save Harry, and ever since then I’ve tried to compensate by helping others. It was a fire, in our childhood home, gone up in flames in a freak accident. Harry was trapped inside, and there was nothing I could do. I heard her screams and could do nought but stand there, restrained by those who forbid me from helping. And I will do _anything_ not to alleviate that guilt. So, do not think you can try and force me out, alright? I’m sorry if you do not want me here, but we’re stuck together now; I don’t think Magnussen would take too kindly to me quitting an hour after he gave me the job. You need help, Will. You might not realise it, but you do not have to be alone. Especially now Magnussen and Moriarty seem set on having you.” John is breathing heavy, and Will can feel his own heartbeat has accelerated, his chest heaving. The man in front of him paces, his body reacting to his vitriol physically. It seems he is not finished yet, because he speaks some more. “You know, I may serve Magnussen, but I have no loyalty to a man like that. Lord, the way he handled you then! I could never serve someone so vile. But this is my _home._ I could not leave. Sherrinford is in poor condition, Appledore was the only place I could find employment. But do you want to know how I got injured in Magnussen’s army? It was no courageous battle, it was the quelling of a protest against the raising of taxes. I was trying to save some poor civilians caught up in the foray. I was no more defending Magnussen’s throne than saving his own subjects from his cruelty. I’ve helped others who have fallen in Magnussen’s path before and paid the price, and so do not try and take responsibility for _my_ actions. This is my choice to make, and I think it will do you good. So there!”

John stabs a finger at Will as he finishes, and Will can’t help but flinch. Guilt flashes through John’s eyes. He seems to deflate a little, and he rubs a hand over his eyes. “Look, I’m sorry, that was very… _noble,_ of me, and possibly out of turn. Trying to force myself on you, I’m just as bad as those slave traders. If you want, I can be a little less-”

“No,” Will interrupts. “It’s…. fine.”

He has been incredibly stupid.

He should have seen this coming. He theorised it himself in the carriage; John truly is the kindest man he’s ever met. He had not reacted with hate and anger the first time Will had deduced, so why on earth did he think it would work this time?

Will had tried to protect John from getting involved in his life of cruelty, but now he realises how foolish he has been to think John could ever be protected; a man as strong as John Watson can look out for himself. John exists in the same world as himself, he realises, as everyone does, for if King Charles can deal with slaves, and if a royal prince can be subjected to a life of slavery, then there is no divide between Will’s world and John’s world. And yet, John has kept his kindness, despite having been to hell and back.

John had seemed, at first, like a rare specimen, to be kept as he was in Will’s memory, remembered and pondered over, and never tarnished. But so many times over the years has he craved a person with whom he could find friendship, and his life has turned upside down today in the strangest way possible to so why not, he thinks, let John stick around. John is a valuable ally to have, and Will will take whatever he can, in this nest of vipers. And John Watson seems far more than what he could ever have hoped for.

A small kindle of warmth begins to stir in his chest, like the fire in the grate, and he frowns.

“I’m sorry, that was stupid of me to…. I’m a little, confused.”

A sympathetic smile graces John’s face, and he comes and sits in the chair by the bed.

“It’s fine, it’s all fine….by the way, Harry is short for Harriett. It was my sister, not my brother.”

“Sister!” Will exclaims. “There’s always something.”

John chuckles lightly, and the sound makes Will’s heart feel lighter, too. He makes note of the feeling and stores it away to examine later.

They fall into a pregnant silence. Will can sense John has questions. At this moment, however, he registers the lavish interiors surrounding him, the soft mattress under him. He blinks. “Where are we?”

 “This is your new chamber. Nice, isn’t it? Although, not under the best circumstances.” John says, biting his lip. “Listen, what Moriarty and Magnussen were saying, is it…?”

Will nods. “It’s true.”

“So you really are?”

“Yes.”

John nods, mouth agape eyes wide. He suddenly bursts into laughter. “I’m sorry, but this is…insane. Absolutely crazy.”

Will bits his lip. “Yes, I also do not know what to think.” He puts his head in his hands, running his fingers over his scalp. “I don’t know what this all means, and its infuriating me not knowing! I am supposed to be this prince, but I don’t know the first thing about royal families and kingdoms, it never interested me, there was never any point. What have you heard?”

“About Sherlock? Sorry- you.” John says, hastily correcting himself. This is bizarre. It is as if a legend of old has been proven true to him in an off-handed manner and it is now something that he must accept, taking it as a norm. For so long, people wish for proof of a legend’s truth, but now that it is believable, a tangible confirmation, it seems almost unbelievable. 

“Don’t.” Will interrupts, a bony hand held up to silence him. “Don’t call me that, that’s not my name. That’s not me.”

“Will,” John says, “You know that he is you, though? You and Sherlock, you are the same person.”

“Yes. I know. I’ve been over it over and over in my mind. It feels like some sort of trick, but I know it’s real.”

“Alright.” John nods.

“But I don’t know what to do!” Will says, his hands cradling the back of his skull. “I don’t know who I am, John! All I’ve been is something dictated by others, and now, it’s happened again, and I’m just supposed to accept it!”

“It’s fine. It’s all fine.” John says, interrupting Will before he can get himself any more wound up. “We’ll figure it out. And if it helps, we can start with me telling you what I know?”

Will lets out a shaky breath and nods. Clarity in cold hard facts is what he needs right now. John shifts on the chair, rubbing his hands together as he thinks. Will wishes John would sit beside him on the bed. He would like to erase the feel of Magnussen’s hands upon him with the presence of someone a lot more bearable and wanted. But John is keeping his distance, unsure how to treat me after the days’ events. If Will were to have the confidence, we would ask John to sit by him, but whilst John has assured him of his continued presence, Will is not quite sure how to about asking someone for something so intimate. Or anything, really. Everything has always been dumped on him; even these new memories.

Hopefully John can provide some context.

“So,” John starts, clearing his throat. “I don’t know much, and, it might not even be accurate, but the stories of Sherlock Holmes’s disappearance even made it to my small village; it was big news.”

Will nods, indicating for him to continue.

“Sherlock, I mean- you, was, is, sorry,” John stumbles. “You are the youngest son of King Siger Holmes of the kingdom of Sherrinford, and his wife, Queen Violet. You have a brother, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Yes, Mycroft, I remembered that name.” Will says. His brother, with ginger hair and a round face. “Moriarty said he’s always been very uptight. I remember him calling my name, wanting me to stop being so reckless. We were out riding. I liked it, the freedom it gave me.”

John gives him a small smile, and Will realises he was reminiscing without thought. His cheeks flush red. “Sorry. Continue.”

“Mycroft, he’s actually regent right now. Your father, he…well, a lot of people said he went insane. Of course, that’s the cruel hearsay of people here, but he isn’t well enough, regardless, to rule, so Mycroft has taken over for him. Things haven’t exactly been going well for him though; your father depleted the kingdom’s resources, and as a result raised taxes; the people have been angry about it for a long time. That’s why Moriarty, and I suppose your former captors, were able to cross the border so well and do business on either side; Mycroft does not have the resources to defend the border. It’s a free for all, basically.

“What about Sherlock? When did he disappear?”

“Oh, err,” John thinks about it, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs. “I was a child myself, about ten, I think, and that was eighteen years ago.”

“Eighteen years…” Will lets the words drip off his tongue. He has never before had a concept in terms of time of how long he has spent in slavery. Eighteen years seems like it should be a significant span of time, as if he should be angry about those lost years, but he feels numb. The number has not yet conferred a value in his brain; he files it away to process later. He needs the cold hard facts, for now.

But that is hard, when he ponders on the fact that he was never found. In all that time, surely someone must have been looking for him? Those feelings of belonging were surely not just one sided on his behalf? John had said his father had depleted Sherrinford’s resources, and Moriarty had taunted him with the fact his father had barely bothered looking for him; the memories of his father’s cruel words rings true in his mind. Perhaps that is why. He tries to take it impersonally, tell himself it does not matter, because it has happened now, and there is nothing anyone can do about it, but there is an underlying sting still there, like his skin has been touched by stinging nettles. He shakes it off. Later.

“News spread quickly.” John continues, “Appledore has always seen Sherrinford as an enemy, but even at that time sympathy was shared. I remember there were images of you, cheap mock-ups of a proper portrait, I think, posted everywhere.”

“I don’t think I’d have looked the same.” Will says. “My hair has always been shaved.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry it didn’t work. I’ve heard rumour, though, that your brother is trying his best to look for you, when he can. Although, I guess Moriarty and Magnussen beat him to it.”

“Yes, they did say something to that effect.” Will thinks, bringing his fingertips to his lips. “They seem to think that now they’ve got me, they can use me. But for what? Leverage?”

Before John can answer, there is a knock on the door.                                                                                

* * *

 

Gregory Lestrade cannot help but listen to the conversation happening behind the oak door. He is supposed to be delivering a message, but Sherlock and this other man, John, seem to be having a very intense conversation.

He is not too troubled by it, though, because from the sound of things, John is someone trustworthy, someone who might be able to help Greg, when the time comes. It is definitely something for him to consider.

He holds off as long as he can, but he must deliver this message soon; it is time sensitive. It seems like the conversation has taken another turn, and so he knocks on the door, and waits for admittance.

He braces himself, as John calls ‘enter!’ to come face to face with Sherlock for the first time in eighteen years. He had a brief glimpse of him when Sebastian Moran had carried him in, but that was not enough. It is a moment he has envisioned all this time, and it pains him to know Sherlock won’t have a chance of recognising him, if he even remembers him, with his face mostly hidden by the helmet. He pulls the door open and pokes his head in.

His heart near stops.

Sherlock is nothing like he had expected. For some reason, Greg had assumed he would still have those curls he had as a child, adorning his head like a crow’s nest. But Greg should have realised it when he first saw the boy, or rather, man now; the chains that had bound him were a clear sign of his enslavement. They are gone now, but the shaved head, the underfed and skinny body speak enough of Sherlock’s poor treatment. Slavery had of course always been a possibility, and Greg has done his time undercover with some of the vilest people on this earth, but he had heard rumour of King Charles looking for Sherlock also, and so he had got himself this job at the castle. Maybe if he’d stuck it out in the slave rings, he might have found him first. But, he is here in front of him at least, and Greg is desperate to reveal himself, to gather Sherlock up in a hug, but he cannot, not just yet. So, he simply delivers the message.

“Apologies for interrupting, but I have a message from the King. He requests your presence at dinner. He would like you to change into a new set of clothes; a servant will be by soon with the things necessary.”

He waits for Sherlock to reply, but he doesn’t, and instead looks to the other man, John. John, who has kind eyes and a reassuring presence, but who is regarding Greg with hostility; so, a fighter when needed, too.

“Thank you.” He says, when Sherlock doesn’t say anything.

Greg nods, and backs out of the room, shutting the door. He hopes in time he will earn the trust of both men, but first, he needs to contact Mycroft as soon as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos so far, they are always appreciated!
> 
> See you on Friday!


	9. Cruel Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: if you missed it, I posted chapter 8 on Wednesday instead of today, so if you've not read that, please do go back and read it before you do this chapter. 
> 
> TW: mention of noncon/rape
> 
> Enjoy this chapter.

Will looks at himself in the mirror. Or rather, he looks at someone. Will. Sherlock. Who knows? The man who looks back is as thin as a rake, and his shaved head makes his cheekbones and eyes just out stupidly, in his opinion. Overall, he does not see anything regal about himself, nothing that could link him to a lineage of kings and queens. Although, the new clothes are doing their best to encourage such an image.

This is comfort and warmth as he has never known it. The trousers and shirt soft and thick, the jacket a deep red velvet which, with a bit of tightening on the aiglets, fits him almost perfectly. His feet and calves are laced into knee-high leather boots, and they feel heavy with the weight of them. Frankly, he feels slightly ridiculous.

“You look great!” John says, trying to lighten the mood. “Although- may I?”

Will frowns and shrugs, and John moves forward, so close Will can feel his breath on his cheek. He finds he does not mind it. John reaches out and grabs the collar of the jacket, popping it upwards, so it stands up against Sherlock’s neck. He then steps back to evaluate his work, and Will misses the warmth on his cheek.

“Yeah, much better.” John nods, satisfied.

Will gives him a small smile, and John returns it. “It’s all going to be fine. We’ll sort this out.” He says, tone in no way patronising, but simply a comfort to Will’s growing nerves.

There is a knock at the door; someone come to escort him to King Charles. Will lets out a shaky breath. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.” John says. “I’m going to go and collect my belongings from my old rooms, but I’ll be back as soon as I can. “

Will nods. John had found a secret door behind the tapestry of the hunter, which when opened revealed a small antechamber with a rickety old bed, obviously intended for a servant should a guest need attending to, but which would work for John to attend to Will.

Will had made a point of telling John he did not have to give up his lodgings for him, but John had insisted it was for practicalities sake; returning to his lodgings every night and then coming back to the castle every morning would be impractical and a waste of time. Still, Will feels guilt gnaw at him at the thought of the rickety old bed in the antechamber.

There is a knock on the door, and the guard pops his head in. “Time to go.” He says, his voice muffled by the helmet.

Will lets out a shaky breath, and John gives him a reassuring smile. “It’s all going to be fine.”

Will is not sure he believes him, but the intonation of the words is enough to calm him, and he gives John a small nod before walking past him and following the guard out of the room.                                                                                       

* * *

 

Wide doors swing open with a loud creak, and the silence which follows is eerie and weighted. Will swallows, trying to keep his breathing as calm as possible, despite the frantic pounding of his heart in his chest.

“Ah, Sherlock, there you are.” King Charles says. He is seated at the top of a long oak table, the shine of the varnished wood catches the light of the setting sun through high windows, throwing Magnussen into a spotlight of sorts. “Come, sit next to me.”

Will hesitates but forces his feet to walk across the floor until he comes to stand by the seat on Magnussen’s right. The guard follows him, on his tail, and Magnussen nods at the man, who takes a few steps back until he rests by the wall, directly behind Sherlock. A personal guard, apparently.

Magnussen notices Will looking. “That is Graham, your personal guard. I’d get used to his presence. Now, sit.”

Will pulls out the seat, sitting down on the very edge, keeping his hands on his lap, fiddling with his fingers. Magnussen watches him the entire time, eyes gleaming.

“You look beautiful. Those clothes really are much better than what you were wearing before…”

Will does not reply; best to keep his head down and keep submissive, for now. Men such as Magnussen, they like to do their preening, like a peacock.

“There are more clothes in your wardrobe, but I wanted to see you in these ones, in my colours….” Magnussen says, and he snaps his fingers, the room suddenly filling with servants, all carrying plates laden with food, far more food than in necessary for two people. Most of the food he does not recognise, and when Magnussen starts to help himself to seemingly a piece of everything, he sits there, slightly overwhelmed.

Magnussen, of course, notices. “Well go on then, you must be starving. Look at you, skin and bones. You know, your brother, Mycroft, he is much _fatter,_ so I’ve heard.”

“He is not my brother.” Will says, shaking his head.

“Of course he is.” Magnussen says.

“I don’t know him. I barely remember him.”

“Oh, my dear.” Magnussen says, with a put-upon sympathy. He stops piling food onto his plate and leans across to Will, dragging one of his hands from his lap and into his damp grasp. Will cannot help the shudder which travels across his shoulder blades and down his spine, settling as a heavy weight in his stomach. “You must be very confused. But know this, you are Sherlock Holmes, and you are very important to me, and to James.”

Will takes a deep breath. “Why? Apart from that I am, apparently, this long-lost prince, why am I so important?”

“Oh, but that is exactly why you are so important!” Magnussen says, shoving Will’s hand away and returning to his plate of food. He glares at Will, who reluctantly takes a leg of chicken and puts it on his plate. He looks down, and is perplexed to see two utensils he has only seen used once or twice in his life, but has never, to his memory, made use of himself. One is a small, blunt knife, and the other looks like a four-pronged spade. He hesitates, through sheer force of will trying to stop the red flush of embarrassment which rises to his cheeks, before he picks the utensils up. They feel ungainly in his hand. Magnussen begins to chuckle, spraying some of the food from his mouth over the table.

“Oh, my dear. You are so pitiable. Here, let me help.”

He rises from his seat which a harsh scraping sound of wooden legs on a stone floor and comes to stand behind Will’s chair. He leans forward, taking both of Will’s wrists in his hands. He is so close Will can feel his hot, damp breath on his face. It is repulsive. “Here, you hold the meat down with this one and cut with the other.”

Will lets the man to take him through the process, trying to dull the physical sensations of this unpleasant experience. For far longer than is necessary Magnussen leans over him, but finally, when all the chicken is in small pieces, does he lean away, coming to sit in his own chair once again. Will rubs the back of his neck, fighting the urge to wipe his face. Behind him, he can hear the guard, Graham, shifting his feet, uncomfortable.

“There, that’s better.” Magnussen says, resuming his own meal. “Returning to the matter at hand, my dear, you are so very important to me. Remember what I told you in your chamber? ‘You will win me your father’s throne.’ You are my final excuse as to why I should invade your father’s lands and claim his throne for myself.”

Will blinked, “But….if I am the youngest son, then surely Mycroft is next in line, not me?”

Magnussen laughs. “Oh, we are not waiting for the natural process. No, my dear. Your father is close to death, or haven’t you heard about his deteriorating condition?”

_Insane,_ John had said, that was the rumour. Will decides it is best to remain oblivious, and so he shakes his head. “No, I told you, I know nothing.”

“Your father, Siger, has been sick for a while. He can thank Janine for that.”

“Janine?”

Magnussen nods, cramming chicken in his mouth. “We needed him out of the way, but I for one did not want him simply killed, as if the event of his death were not a symbolic and significant event. No, I wanted him to suffer. So, Janine placed a curse on him; it is slowly eating both his body and mind. You should thank me, you know, he was always so cruel to you, his youngest son.”

Will just shakes his head. He has been through the humiliation of having to thank an owner for a beating enough times; he will not give Magnussen the pleasure of thanking him for harming someone, not matter how cruel the man had apparently been, Will will not stoop so low.

“Now Mycroft has assumed the regency, the throne is very much weakened. Mycroft has barely any money to finance his troops, and his people are far from happy with their rulers. They need a new ruler, and I intend to be that man. And for that, I need you.”

“What for?”

“Marriage, of course.” Magnussen says with a shrug, and he watches Will’s reaction with a gleaming smile on his face.

Will blinks, breathing suddenly becoming difficult. His heart seems to stutter in his chest, and he lurches forward in his seat. “Marriage?”

“Yes, my dear. You and me.” Magnussen leans forward and takes hold of his hand. “We will be married, tomorrow evening. And you will give me my rightful claim to the throne through our union. And it will be a union, on all accounts…” His gaze wanders down Will’s body, leaving Will with no grey areas as to what the man means.

All this time, Will had assumed that Magnussen had wanted a use of his deductive abilities, thinking they were his only positive attribute. But this new status, this identity which Magnussen seems much surer of than Will himself, has placed on him another sentence of ownership. He is to be _married_ to this man? In all shapes and forms it will be a _union?_

There had been times in the past where someone had tried that, had attempted to unlace his clothing and have their way, but it had never come to the worst possible outcome, but now….no, this could not be happening!

Fire races through his veins, unlike anything he has felt before, and he tightens his grip on the blunted knife in his hand. “ _No!”_ he snarls, and he brings the knife up, swinging it down on Magnussen’s hand over his-

Except Magnussen puts out his other hand and stops Will in his tracks. He holds Will’s knife wielding hand in his own and squeezes until the other man if forced to drop his weapon. He keep hold of Will’s hand, still squeezing his bony fingers.

“Oh please, do try to fight. I love the rebellious ones, but do know that you will never win, and there is nothing you can do to stop this.”

Will tries to free his hand from Magnussen’s grip, but to no avail. “So is this what I’m to be then? Even freed from my chains, I am still just a _thing_ to be used as you like?”

Magnussen laughs. “Did you think I would allow you any more freedoms? You may no longer bear the physical markers of imprisonment, but believe me, my dear, I intend to make you _mine._ And you will be mine, and then your father’s throne will be mine.”

It is difficult for Will to understand the larger implications of what Magnussen intends for him, for all his mind can focus on at this moment is the fact that he is to be bound to this man in body and mind. He supposes he should care more about the bigger picture, but right now, he wants to run far, far away; he has never felt so desperate for freedom in his life, but he supposes he should have expected this; Magnussen truly is a monster.

“Now, a tailor shall be by your rooms tomorrow morning to fit you for your outfit, and then tomorrow evening we shall be wed. This wedding needs to be kept secret, we don’t want your brother catching wind of your discovery, but I will have this wedding be a grand occasion, to match its significance, you see. In the meantime, James will be popping by with a favour to ask; he needs use of that brain of yours. And then, within two weeks we shall be away, with an armed and strong army, to take your family throne.” Magnussen loosens his grip then, and brings Will’s hand to his lips, kissing it. “I would like you to rest, for now, and know that tomorrow night we shall be together.”

Will shoots him a filthy glare, one he normally only reserves for when his owner is sleeping and cannot see his small piece of mutiny. He glances Magnussen up and down, trying to find something to throw the man off his rhythm, some insecurity or something of personal embarrassment, but there is nothing; Magnussen is too vulgar, and too confident in his power to have any insecurities. Will has no means of defence against him.

“May I go?” He asks, his food barely touched, but he does not care, he is not hungry anymore. He feels, instead, as if he may vomit.

“Of course, my dear.” Magnussen says, and kisses his hand again. Finally, he lets Will go, who stumbles to his feet, chair scraping against the floor. “Graham, please escort Prince Sherlock back to my chambers.”

Will feels a hand on his arm, and it seems much gentler compared to Magnussen’s grip, and he is lead from Magnussen’s presence, mind whirling and stomach churning, and apparently just about to enter a new hell.                                                                               

* * *

 

“John!” A familiar voice calls, and John’s shoulders tense. He is just leaving his small rented room, bags laden with his belongings chucked over his shoulders, despite his injured one’s complaints, when he hears his name being called.

“Mary!” he says, and he turns with a small smile on his face.  Mary is striding towards him with purpose, beaming smile on her face and crossbow over her shoulder; back from training, apparently.

“John, how are you? Last I saw of you you were going across the border. Back now, I see, how was the trip?”

_Well, I’m now personal physician to the apparently long-lost Prince Sherlock of Sherrinford,_ John thinks, but he has a feeling he should keep quiet about Will’s presence in the castle. “Good, I think. Got myself a job up at the castle, so I’m moving on from here, got new digs.”

“Oh,” Mary says, face dropping in disappointment. She sniffs and tosses her hair back, the blonde strands threatening to fall in her face. “That is a shame. I shall miss living next to you…”

Her tone is laden with implications, and John is already carrying too much at this moment, so he pretends to ignore it. He gives her a small, apologetic smile, and shrugs. “Well, I’ll be seeing you….”

Mary frowns, “Alright….”

John gives her a nod and turns. “John!” Mary calls, and he twists his head round again, raising his eyebrows. “Have you ever thought about us….?”

John bites his lip. If he is honest with himself, there has only been one person in his mind for the last few days, and their presence has wiped any fond memories of his and Mary’s time together from his brain like a tidal wave. “Honestly? No.”

Mary takes a deep breath and nods. John suddenly becomes very aware of the crossbow over the woman’s shoulder; Mary is an excellent shot, part of Magnussen’s specialist army, and John knows she could have the weapon loaded and an arrow embedded in his chest before he could say ‘sorry’. But Mary does not look angry, just resigned, as if she had expected John to react in that way. “Very well,” She sighs, “I’ll see you around.”

She turns, heading to her own rooms, and John remains standing outside his old room, on the cusp of a new life, with a bitter taste in his mouth.                                                                                      

* * *

 

Will shuts the door on his guard as they return to his rooms, leaning heavily against the wood. His breaths seem to shudder out of him in waves, wracking his whole body with shivers. The world has been more than turned upside down by the events of this evening. His mind is screaming at him, red alerts going off; he needs to deal with his feelings, process everything, calm the storm. But now, with the thought of the impending fate that greets him in the morning…

He had once seen a small boat tied to a harbour, tethered tentatively with fraying rope. The beat of the waves against it were threatening to upturn the little boat and uproot it from the harbour until it was washed away and lost forever to the fierce current. Right now, he feels like that little boat, and he stumbles to the bed, trembling.

His safety protocols are giving up, his mind falling into disarray, and the feel of Magnussen’s damp hands on him seems to push aside any sense of calm he might have been able to maintain. Tears come unwanted, fierce and fast, and Will gives in, for the moment, and allows himself to feel the terror of his situation, the feeling of being lost at sea. Sinking down on the mattress feels like sinking down under the surface, and drowning.                                                                                     

* * *

 

The guard is back at Will’s door when John returns, so the man himself must be inside. John gives the man a brief nod, bags weighing heavy on his shoulders after the climb up the spiral staircase, and goes the enter. Before he does, however, the guard stops him.

“Sorry, Doctor Watson, but I must warn you, he is very upset.”

John tenses. This cannot be good. “What do you mean, is he alright?”

“Physically he is fine, yes, but… you know how King Charles can be.” The man says, voice laden with implication.

John sucks in a stiff breath and nods. “Yes. Of course. Thank you….”

“Graham.” The man supplies.

“Graham.” John nods.

Graham opens the door for him, standing to the side as John fumbles his way into the room, carrying worry on his shoulders now, as well as his bags. Once he is inside, and the door is shut behind him, he immediately drops his bags to the floor and rushes to the bed, where Will is curled up, sobbing.

“Oh, lord, Will.” John says, coming to sit down on the mattress next to the man. He lays a gentle hand on Will’s shoulder, hoping his presence emits calm. Will jumps, head looking up to meet John’s worried gaze. His cheeks immediately redden, and he tears his gaze away and sits up, attempting to stop the sobs leaving his mouth.

“Don’t.” John shakes his head. “You don’t have to hide from me. Let yourself cry, it can be good, sometimes.”

Will shakes his head. “I’m being ridiculous.”

“I don’t think you are, really.” John counters. “The more ridiculous thing to do would be to try and not care about how you feel, to cut those emotions off. Especially because you don’t want me to see. Come on, I’m your physician, and I say it’s healthy, so let it out.”

Will gives him a withering look and John smiles, trying to lighten the mood. Will shakes his head, but the sobs rise out of his chest, and his head droops. John places both hands on the man’s shoulders. “Tell me what happened. It’s always better to share.”

“King Charles, he…” Will says, voice rasping. “He intends to marry me, tomorrow.”

John’s eyes widen, mouth gaping open. “ _Marry you?”_

Will nods. “He needs a good claim to the Sherrinford throne; marrying me gives him a legitimate blood connection.”

“Hang on, Magnussen intends to take the Holmes throne?”

Will nods again. “He is raising an army as we speak; he believes it will be ready in two weeks.”

“Oh my god…” John says, removing one of his hands from Will to run it through his hair. He supposes, now he thinks about the lengths Magnussen has gone to retrieve Will, that it makes sense that his intention would be something big. And the more he thinks about it, about how easy it is to cross the border, about how weakened Mycroft Holmes is on the Sherrinford throne, of course it seems like the perfect time to usurp the Holmes’s and take their throne. It is possible, but John had always just assumed it would never come to that. Will, however, seems to be the missing puzzle piece Magnussen needs to complete his plans, the perfect excuse to take his enemy’s throne.

“And I assume, when you say he wants a claim to the throne, that he does not mean to wait for Mycroft to die naturally and then assume it for himself?”

Will shakes his head. “Of course not.”

“Oh my…” John says again. The implications are massive; their lives are going to change irrevocably, especially Will’s. And of course, all this is a good enough reason for the man to be having a breakdown like this, but there seems to be something Will is holding back from him, a hesitation hangs in the air, heavy enough John can almost feel it. “What else…”

Will glances at him, eyes narrowing. “How do you…”

“I can see there’s something else wrong. Look, not just you who can be clever.” John says, trying to lighten the mood. Will’s eyes flick backwards and forwards, his tongue coming out to a lick at his lip before he speaks. “Moriarty also wants to speak with me, tomorrow. It seems they have another use for me in their _little_ game.”

“Oh…” John says. The air still feels thick, Will’s words have not cleared it, and John hesitates, unsure whether Will has told him the whole truth or not. After a moment, he decides not to press it; if Will wants to tell him something, he can do it in his own time. He is getting enough intrusion from Magnussen and Moriarty’s meddling; he does not need any more from John. What he needs from John now is support.

He grabs Will’s hand then, holding it gently. The man sniffs, looking at his hand in John’s with a small frown on his face. “Well then,” John says, “Magnussen and Moriarty may think they can use you, but please, Will, do not give up. They might get what they want, but that does not mean that they can win you. What makes you _you_.”

“But that is the problem, John.” Will admits, eyes red and thin face hollowed out with stress. “I do not know who I am, so how will I know what they haven’t taken from me?”

John does not know what to say to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely hope Mary does not come across as a character just there to provide context for John's past sexual/romantic endeavours, which would be a complete disgrace to her character from the TV series, but in an effort to keep this chapter concise, I worry she has come across this way. She returns later, and is most definitely the most important person to herself, not John Watson! So I apologise if she comes across that way in this chapter. 
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments and subscriptions so far, i really appreciate it, but will always welcome more!!
> 
> See you on monday for the next chapter.


	10. Union

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your comments and kudos so far, they are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Enjoy this chapter.

Dawn breaks the next morning, and John’s eyes crack open to a pale sun, diluted by thin grey cloud, streaming in through the windows of Will’s chamber. The bed beneath him is soft, and there is a warm presence to his right. Funny, he hadn’t expected that rickety old bed to be so comfortable…

He jolts awake, suddenly fully aware of exactly where he is and the person sleeping next to him. _Shit._ He must have fallen asleep on Will’s bed last night. After Will’s words had flummoxed him, John had insisted on giving the man something to help him sleep, and the drug had, well… Will had looked so open and lost, and John had asked if he could hug the man, and Will hadn’t complained. John must have fallen asleep trying to calm the man down, and now here they were.

He tries to shuffle his way out of the bed without waking Will, but the man stirs with the smallest movement of John’s body. His shoulder is stiff, singing its song of agony, and John moves it cautiously. Unfortunately, as he tries to use his arms to push himself up and off the mattress, his shoulder gives up and he slumps back down onto the mattress with a thump.

Will fully wakes then, blearily looking over at John, his brow creased.

“Sorry.” John says, a bashful smile on his face.

“It’s…. fine.” Will says, slowly sitting up, bringing his knees to his chest. “I need to be awake anyway; there is a tailor coming, apparently. And Moriarty wants to speak to me.”

John nods. Will looks awful. His hollow face looks bland and pale in the early morning light, and John watches as a resigned blankness comes over his eyes. John knows the man well enough by now to know exactly what he is doing; cutting off his emotions, pushing it away. It is unhealthy, John knows this, and Will’s habit worries him, but if it is what the man needs right now, to deal with the hell that today no doubt will be… then so be it. As his physician, though, John worries about the long-term impact of such an approach.

At least last night he had allowed himself to let events to get the better of him, to break through the dam in little increments. John had been expecting it. He is not surprised, and he does not judge Will for it. He, too, would feel completely bereft and at sea, were he in the man’s position.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spend the night in your bed.” John says. “That was completely unprofessional of me, and I-”

“John, it’s fine.” Will says, his face open and honest. John smiles. He is glad that it is fine. Why is he so glad? Why does it come as such a relief Will is not offended by his presence? He shakes the feeling off. That does not matter at the moment, because right now, he needs to think about getting Will some breakfast, getting some much-needed nourishment in the man.                                                                        

* * *

 

Will is sure he would not have slept so soundly were John not beside him.

He has never slept as well as he did last night, which takes him aback. Perhaps he was in the eye of the storm, protected for a moment from the tempest, for today he knows will bring him no peace. But it had been pleasant, at least, to wake up to the warmth of John’s body beside him.

Why? He wonders. Why is John’s presence such a balm to his worries and woes?

Perhaps it is because John is the kindest man he has ever met. But there seems to be something more at play here, some unidentifiable feelings Will is unfamiliar with, but nonetheless light a warm fire in his stomach. It is comforting.

How odd.

He had not told John of all of Magnussen’s intentions, and as he watches the man stumble about in the early morning, his injured shoulder stiff as he stokes the fire to life, he feels a wave of something bitter at the back of his throat. He did not want John to know, lest he do something foolish which might threaten his position or his life. Furthermore, there is a tight coil in his stomach at the thought of John finding out that Magnussen is taking advantage of him in such an intrusive manner; he is angry and ashamed that he is stuck in this position, where he cannot fight off harm done to his body. Ironic, he thinks, that how everything has changed and yet nothing really has.                                                                                       

* * *

 

Moriarty’s chambers seem to compromise primarily of curtains draped elegantly, as if to give the effect of being in a tent. The atmosphere is cloying, and it seems to stick to Will’s skin, making him come out in a sweat. There is a slight scent of something woody in the air, and it almost burns at his nostrils.

“Sherly!” Moriarty’s delighted voice calls, and suddenly the man appears from behind one of the curtains, like an actor to the stage, beaming smile on his face.  

Will takes a deep breath and holds himself ramrod straight as Moriarty parades over to him, stroking his arms and admiring him as one admires their jewels. “You do look handsome in those fine clothes, my dear. Really, it is such an improvement.”

Will just levels Moriarty’s gaze with his own. He needs to get to the bottom of what Moriarty wants, because he has a feeling that marriage to Magnussen is not the only thing. It cannot be, for that is not benefitting Moriarty directly at all.

“Was it your idea for Magnussen to marry me?” Will asks.

Moriarty raises his eyebrows, head moving backwards, like a bird pecking at its feathers. “Oh no, my dear. If I could I would have you all to myself, but a bargain had to be made, an eye for an eye, if you will…”

“So, what is it you want with me then?” Will asks. “Because it cannot just be this marriage, no, that doesn’t get you much, does it?”

Moriarty contemplates this with a shrug of his shoulders and a sniff. “Well, it might surprise you, but…no, no it doesn’t, does it?” He bites his lip. “Oops. Well, never mind because I do have some other use for you, for your brain, because really….” Moriarty comes closer, so that they are practically nose to nose. The man’s breath is hot on Will’s skin, and he has to refrain from twitching against the repulsive feeling. “You are incredibly beautiful, and with a bit of fattening up you’ll be even more so, but your mind…. that is the most beautiful part of you, and that’s what I really need of you, Sherlock, your mind.”

Will swallows back the bile in his throat. Of course, Moriarty would land on the one thing Will feels is really and truly his to control: his mind. His mind he is sure of, his mind he has laboriously ordered and shaped into something which helps him, and now, it must go into the possession of Moriarty, be used for his gains. Will’s cheek twitches. However, he thinks, Moriarty might be able to use his intelligence, but he cannot be inside Will’s mind the way the other man can. There must be something he can do. Possibly. Once he knows what he is up against.

“And what do you want with it?”

Moriarty pulls away from Will and starts to pace, fingertips of each hand drumming against those of the opposite hand. The tempo is fast and agitated, and around Moriarty’s eyes there seems to be this hunger, driven out of desperation. “My family is of ancient lineage. Older than yours. In fact, the Moriartys ruled the kingdom of Appledore long before Magnussen’s lineage came along and toppled ours. It was at that battle, centuries ago, that we lost something incredibly precious to us. And that is what I want you to find.”

Will frowns. There is something murky about this, like a predator waiting just below the surface, ready to pounce. “Is that thing the throne?”

Moriarty rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dense, I wouldn’t go proclaiming it to anyone and everyone if I intended to win back my family’s throne. No, the throne is not what I want, that is useless to me; a king is a puppet. I want something much better.” He tuts, looking at Will as if he is an imbecile.  “Your family, they imprisoned mine for a long while, following our downfall. Eventually, over the centuries, the punishment was lightened, and we were given back our deserved freedoms. Your father however, changed that, when he banished my family, not long after your birth, the arrogant sod. We were forced to flee to here, to our mother land, disgraced. But Magnussen has provided me and my sister with shelter and resources, in exchange for our continued support of him. And you, you were the biggest bargaining chip. He needs you for the Sherrinford throne and I need you to solve this mystery for me.”

“Why me? Why can’t you do it?” Will asks.

“Because of that brain of yours.” Moriarty says with a glint in his eye. “Now, I’m not saying that I couldn’t solve this mystery if I wanted to, but I know you will be able to solve this far quicker than anyone else I know. And besides, I’ve got to help raise an army, give me a break!” Moriarty says, hands held up in mock surrender. He soon moves closer to Will again, though, leaning forward, teeth bared. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time, Sherlock, and now that I’ve found you, as I said, you owe me. Maybe if your brother wasn’t crippled by his crumbling kingdom, he might have found you sooner, but unfortunately for him, I’ve been on your tail for a long time; I heard rumours of a slave boy who could tell a knight from his walking gait and a merchant from his hands. I remembered a prince who could do that, from our childhood. And when I first saw you, well… your eyes, Sherlock, they truly are striking. I did not forget them, when you went missing, and they were the key to your recovery. I mean, just look at this portrait of you!”

Moriarty dramatically pulls back a curtain from the wall and reveals to Will a small yet incredibly intricate portrait of a young boy. The boy has ashen skin, and thick, glossy hair; the texture of the paint on canvas makes it seem as if the hair is real. He looks bored, sitting for a portrait is tedious, Will imagines, but his eyes are brought to life by the skill of the painter; an ocean’s worth of blues and greens swirls in those irises, highlighted by streaks of white, like the sun reflecting off the waves. The boy is at once familiar and unfamiliar. Will knows that is him, _Sherlock._ And he knows the likeness to his own, scrawny, down beaten self is surprising, but uncanny.

“I knew I’d got you the moment I saw your eyes.” Moriarty says, admiring the portrait himself. “When I first showed this painting to Charles, he was enamoured. I knew you were the piece I needed, to gain his support; get you to him and he would offer me resources, power. So, here is what I need you to do….”

Moriarty strides over to a far side of the room, so consumed in darkness that Will cannot make out what he is doing. He has to force himself not to glance over at the portrait of himself again; its gaze seems to watch him, as if awaiting him to greet it, like an old friend. He swallows heavily, turning away.

Moriarty returns from the heavy darkness, a slip of paper, folded, in his grasp. “The battle for the Appledore throne took place in Sherrinford; my family tried and failed to protect Appledore from any devastation, which, in the end, occurred anyway. In that battle, something very precious was lost. You have noticed, I think, my jewel?”

Moriarty lightly fingers the chain which holds the jewel around his neck. Will’s eyes are immediately drawn to it. Yes, of course he has noticed it. He cannot help but notice the entrancing stone which hangs around Moriarty’s neck. It seems to emanate a pulsing energy, as if it is thrumming with life, not losing its connection from the living ground from which it came, despite being encased in a golden prison.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Moriarty says, tone like that of a proud father. “There are three of them. I have one, Janine has another, and-”

“And the other was lost in the battle for the throne.” Will finishes for him, the situation suddenly becoming much clearer.

Moriarty smiles. “Precisely. That was of course, decades ago, so one might think me mad for even attempting to try and find it now, but I know it is out there. Embedded in my ancestor’s armour it was prised out and hidden somewhere within Sherrinford when he was killed in battle. There have been many legends and rumours about its whereabouts, you know what people are like, they _love_ to gossip, but Magnussen has been able to get me in touch with those who would really know, those who have studied the history and lore of both Sherrinford and Appledore since their conception. And we’ve come away with this,”

He hands the slip of paper to Will, who takes it, opening it slowly. There is what seems to be some sort of poem, or riddle, done in the elegant hand of a scribe. Will looks to Moriarty, eyebrows raised.

“You want me to solve this riddle?”

Moriarty smiles. “Exactly, Sherly! Solve the riddle, and the location of the final jewel will be revealed to us. This riddle comes from the first chronicle of the event, written soon after; it’s our best chance.”

Moriarty’s eyes have gone wide, almost maniacal. He obviously cares deeply about this, with an obsessive desperation. His family’s honour, and its continued existence, is his trigger point. This is the most Will has ever managed to deduce about the man, and he files away this important chink in Moriarty’s armour away in his mind, as arsenal.

“Why not get this expert to solve this, why wait for me?” He asks.

“Well I don’t exactly want what I’m doing becoming common knowledge, do I? Couldn’t have any-old person knowing what I’m looking for and where it is!”

“And when am I supposed to solve this, exactly?” He asks. “I am to be married today, apparently.”

“Oh, you may have use of the king’s library, if you like.” Moriarty says, waving off Will’s concerns. “The original chronicle is in there, and you have until Magnussen has rallied his troops, but I doubt it will take you that long.”

“And then what?” Will asks. “Once you have the third stone, what will you do?” He has his suspicions, the cogs of his brain whirring.

“Then my agreement with Magnussen will be at an end, all sides satisfied, and I will have no honour codes to stand by.” Moriarty says, voice suddenly much lower, resonating much more within the room. Will narrows his eyes, hackles raised. There it is again, that predator that lies beneath the surface. Of course, a man like Moriarty has more planned than a simple agreement with Magnussen, but what, Will is not sure of now, but he intends to find out. He can see that Moriarty knows he has read the implications in the man’s words, read the warning in between the lines. There is one thing he is desperate to know, an evaluation of his character that Moriarty may have banked on.

“What if I refuse? Or what if I let slip something you don’t want my soon-to-be husband to know?”

Moriarty’s eyes widen, and his face is the mockery of shock and surprise. Will shifts, feeling a shiver run up his spine. Moriarty begins to laugh, head thrown back, as if in the throes of hysterics. When he turns to Will again, he is wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

“Oh, Sherly, you big boy! Attempting to threaten me? Catch me off guard? Oh dear, oh no, that won’t work, because I’ve got quite the impressive blackmail.” He comes forward, closer this time than he has been previous, so that their noses really _are_ touching. Will leans backwards, but suddenly Moriarty has him in a tight grip, hands digging into his arms like the talons of a bird. “You will do as I say, and you will not breath a word of it to Magnussen, because if you do, I will take that little doctor of yours, and I will _destroy him.”_

Will’s heart lurches, in full on panic mode as the alarm in his mind begins to blare. ‘ _This is why alone protects you!’_ he screams at himself, but it is too late for that now. Will has given into the feelings he suppresses, tumbling under the waves instead on riding on top of them. he has given into loneliness and desperation and look where it has got him. His breakdown of the previous night should have been warning enough: emotions complicate and destroy the barriers and boundaries with which he has survived. Well no more. Moriarty had noticed he has become fond of John, and now he has the perfect bargaining chip. And Will tries, lord, he tries, to imagine what it would be if he just stopped caring about John, accepted the man would be punished for his slip of the tongue, but it is too late; Moriarty may be dangerous, but John is even more so, as he and his kindness have taken root in Will’s chest and they will not budge.

“And if you try, in anyway, to distort the truth, to give me a false answer to this riddle, then Janine will have a little dig around in your brain and we will know. And then your doctor will face the consequences for that, too.” Moriarty continues, watching the continued heavy realisation behind Will’s eyes with glee.

He will do what he must, Will decides, with resigned acceptance. There is nothing more he can do, apparently. He had thought that he would be walking into this game as a player on equal footing, but Moriarty has already outmanoeuvred him by allowing John to stick by him. He has been foolish, naïve. The weight of years of imprisonment weigh down more heavily than ever. Why had _he,_ a mere slave boy, who once held promise as the prince in the portrait, believed he could somehow go up against Lord Moriarty and King Charles Magnussen? The ladder of society has always dictated his life, and there is not a rung with which he can climb up any further. He looks Moriarty in the eyes and nods his surrender.

Moriarty grins. “Good, very good. You are shaping up nicely, Sherlock.”

“I do what you want, and you do not hurt John.” Will says, trying to emit a low and threatening tone. He is not sure it works, for Moriarty snorts and rolls his eyes, letting go of him and turning away.

“Yes, yes, your precious John won’t be harmed if you solve the riddle. I would appreciate you starting as soon as possible; tomorrow, perhaps? For now, I believe you have a wedding to attend.”

And then he disappears, shrouded by the darkness of the room, curtain swishing after him, leaving Will standing in the middle of the room, outmanoeuvred, overwhelmed.                                                                                       

* * *

 

Thunderclaps, and lightning strikes at unsuspecting victims outside of Will’s window. The man in question watches it avidly, desperate for anything to take his mind off what he is about to go through.

His wedding clothes feel tight, hugging his body in places he does not like. The tailor’s measurements had been taken correctly, though, so he is beginning to believe that Magnussen wanted them to be this tight. Lightning strikes again, and it is as if it travels downs his spine to his legs, making them shaky and unstable.

“Seems awful strange having to solve some kind of riddle. A bit ridiculous, if you ask me.” John says from the other side of the room, as he rifles through his medicine bag. Will hums, distracted. John cannot know the truth.

When he had returned from Moriarty’s chambers, the other man had of course wanted to know everything, and Will had told him only the basic facts: Moriarty needs to solve this riddle to find an old family heirloom, he needs Will for it because of his deductive abilities and problem solving skills. _‘Oh, and if I do not do it, or if I snitch to Magnussen that once Moriarty has possession of this jewel, he is sure to act out some sort of revenge, then Moriarty will most likely kill you’_ , Will had not mentioned to John.  ‘ _And if I try and lie about it, and give a wrong answer, Janine will force the truth from me, and you will be punished for my sins.’_  

“I have to do it John, there’s nothing I can do.” Will says, eyes trained on the storm outside.

He can hear John breathing quietly, can sense the tension vibrating off the man.

“Will-” He starts, but Will cuts him off.

“I had assumed that this new identity forced on me and forced from the very depths of my mind would at least free me from the perverse use from others. But, apparently not. Maybe it is better; all I have to do is fall into the usual old patterns, John. I know how to cope with this, this lack of freedom. I can suppress those _emotions,_ those _feelings,_ and file them away. Or better yet, delete them from my mind.”

John shakes his head, striding towards him. “No. No, listen to me, that is _not_ healthy. You cannot just supress the things you do not want to deal with in the hope that that will sort them out. Because in fact you are doing the exact opposite.”

“But it will protect me, John!” Will counters. ‘ _It will protect you, too!_ ’ goes unsaid. “I’ll play my part in this game and come out having felt _nothing._ Unchanged. It will be for the better.”

John sucks his cheeks in, looking angrier than Will has ever seen him. “No, no it will not work like that. You are _human._ We are meant to feel. Trust me, I have studied the medicines, and feel is all we do; emotionally, physically. That is why we have nerves, and pain receptors, and why our brains react to certain things in certain ways. We are _meant_ to feel and we may not like some of those feelings, but at the end of the day, they will be swept away by other feelings, which will help us heal; grief, pain, they hurt, yes, but then comes acceptance, and peace, and the more we feel those feelings, the better equipped we are to deal with the bad ones. But feeling _nothing…_ that is not a viable solution to your problems, Will. God knows, this is a horrible situation, and I _wish,_ god, I wish I could do more to help you, but here is the advice from your doctor: feel, so that you can heal.”

By the end of John’s speech, Will’s head has turned to face the man, watching him avidly as he speaks with such passion. Passion. One of John’s damned emotions. And yet….it has brought a fire to the man’s eyes which Will cannot help but be mesmerised by. Doubt creeps in.

“And what say you about _fear_?” Will asks, spitting the word as if it is a curse. “How do you justify fear being something good to feel?”

“Because…” John says, hands out in front of him as he gesticulates. “It gives us the ability to be brave. Fighting fear is the most human thing to do. So please, don’t forget fear. Face it, and _fight.”_

John is breathing heavily, chest heaving, body fuelled by feeling. ‘Damn,’ Will thinks, ‘John has a point.’ There is logic in John’s words, for now he realises he has not felt anything, properly, in a long time; even the fear he had felt, when in the ownership of Warton and Smith and their many, many punishments, had been a displaced sort of fear. He had cut himself off from feelings as a survival tactic. It has served him well short-term, but it all creeps in on him at night, in his dreams, and when it catches him off guard, he is unprepared and unequipped to deal with his emotions. But John does not know what Sherlock’s weakness has cost him. Ironically, John’s words of their final moments in the carriage, when Sherlock had tried to push him away, come back to him. ‘Friends protect people’. It is not as black and white as feeling and not feeling, caring or not caring, for Sherlock has fought against John’s ethos and yet here he is, protecting John, because of his own stupid emotions that John is so fond of. There is no way to win, he realises.

“Please can I have the relaxant?” He asks, and John breathes heavily, making eye contact with him for a moment before looking away and handing him the small bottle of remedy. Will downs it in one, ready and willing for whatever herbs and plants John has put in it to take their effect.  

“Just think about what I’ve said.” John asks, quietly. Will looks at him and gives him a small nod.

There is a knock on the door just as the thunder outside claps. Lightning can soon be heard crackling, following the thunder, and as Will squares his shoulders and follows Graham from his chamber and to the castle chapel, he feels that lightning strike him, at his very core.                                                                                       

* * *

 

His procession down the aisle seems to span the length of a lifetime. Will thinks it must be the calming remedy he took, making everything slow, making everything calm. The pews are empty, the absence of witnesses adding a gloomy depth to the fog that surrounds him. The only thing he can properly focus on is King Charles, who stands expectantly, eyes tracking his every movement, at the altar. The movement of the man’s eyes up and down Will’s body is slow, as if he is taking pleasure in every moment, indulging in the sight. When Will finally reaches the altar, he does not look at the man, only the ground, finding solace in the beautifully patterned tiles beneath his feet.

“You look beautiful.” Magnussen says, a possessive hand on his chin. He forces Will to look at him, his damp breath on the other man’s face, eyes dark, consumed by desire. “Mine.”

“Shall we get started, Your Highness?” The priest says, voice low and calm. That is good, it gives Will something to fixate on, no matter how terrible his words are, no matter how they are sealing his fate.                                                                                            

* * *

 

Greg watches on from the back of the room, heart clenching and stomach twisting, as Sherlock makes his slow way up the altar. It is agonising; he has been searching for so long, and now there is nothing he can do, at this moment, to stop him from being consumed by a world of Magnussen and Moriarty’s making.

Still, he has gathered much information, and a letter to Mycroft is on its way. Maybe there is nothing he can do for now, as he watches a reluctant Sherlock be tied to a creature more monster than man, but he is sure that Sherlock will one day be free of all of this, and Magnussen’s grand plans will be stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter, comments and kudos always welcome! The chapters are going to start getting longer as we progress, about 4000-5000 words each; I cannot stop myself, apparently! 
> 
> See you Friday for Chapter 11 (Already? Woah!)


	11. Closeness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: there is reference to and implied rape/non-con in this chapter. If you would rather not read, I will put a brief summary of the chapter in the notes at the end.

The thought first occurs to John whilst he is making up some more calming remedies for Will. The nagging feeling that has built up in him since their discussion of the previous evening is starting to form into a fully-fledged concern. It crosses his mind at first as a terrible, nightmarish situation, something one would posit as a worst-case scenario. Only, as the time passes, and the day gets later and later, does the thought begin to form into a tangible being. John can almost taste it on his tongue, bitter, leaving a tangy aftertaste.

Only when he truly understands just what is going on, does he realise that it is the bitter taste of bile in his mouth, the substance rising in him with revulsion.

How could he have been so _blind?_

He _knew_ there was something heavy bothering Will; the man had been so upset upon returning from his dinner with Magnussen, and John had not wanted to press him, when he saw the man holding something back from him, but now he sees he should have pressed him for the deeper truth, the deeper fear over something else. For, it is extremely obvious to him, what the full matter was. And now, he may be too late to help Will in some way.

He drops what he is doing and charges for the door. He is not sure what he is going to do, what he even can do, but he will curse himself, and his blindness, for the rest of his life, were he not to try and at least do something to stop what he fears might already be happening.                                                                                 

* * *

 

Will takes in the lavish interiors of Magnussen’s chambers as if seeing them through a pane of glass. The gilded gold and the thick fabrics seem unreal, and he reaches out to touch a golden surface, the metal cold under his hand. The icy tangibility of it makes his stomach sink to the pits of hell; this is real, and what is about to happen is real also.

Magnussen is unbuttoning his doublet, long fingers elegantly loosening his trousers. Will edges backwards, keeping in mind the candelabra sitting on the console table behind him. His spindly fingers grip its body, the weight of the metal reassuring. It seems to call for him, to pick it up, hold it as a weapon, fight like he has never been able to before.

He will not take this lying down. Magnussen has been too hasty; he had told Will he liked the rebellious ones, and Will will give him what he wants, as his _devoted and loving husband_ , he thinks sardonically.

“My love, come here, I will undress you.” Magnussen calls, now that he himself is entirely naked. Will grasps the candelabra, stepping towards Magnussen slowly, weapon hidden behind his back. He tries to play his action off as nervous and coy, and Magnussen watches him with gleaming eyes, unphased by his own nakedness.

Will comes to a stop in front of the man, leaving him enough space to swing the weapon as he desires, and waits for Magnussen to make the first move. The man does, his warm breath on Will’s cheek as he reaches out a hand trails it down Will’s chest, toying with the buttons of his doublet. 

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, his teeth coming out to bite at his bottom lip.

“Why?” Will asks. “I don’t understand. I am scrawny and ill-looked after. Why am I beautiful to you?”

He knows the answer, he knows exactly why men like Magnussen are attracted to those who are smaller, weaker, and vulnerable than them, but he needs Magnussen distracted, as he readjusts his grip on his weapon, preparing to strike. 

“Because you are my prized possession. You are beautiful to me because of your worth.” Magnussen drawls, beginning to gently unbutton Will’s doublet. “And the moment I saw you, I just knew you needed saving. You have been treated cruelly, Sherlock, it is time you were cherished and kept…. Beautiful.”

Will’s heart is thumping in his chest, and he can feel his pulse in the tight grip he has around his weapon, his blood thrumming under his skin. He needs to time his hit just right.

“But you intend to use me, just as my previous owners have done. That is all you are to me now, my owner. And you will use me, won’t you?”

Magnussen tuts, looking at Will with mocking reprimand. “Don’t be so pessimistic, my dear. I mean, yes, you are right, I do have a use of you, but I will also cherish you like a prize-”

“And use me like a weapon.” Will spits, and he brings his arm up and swings the candelabra at Magnussen’s head.                                                                       

* * *

 

John is not quite sure where Magnussen’s chambers are, and his search is edging on desperate when he comes across Sebastian Moran, pacing in front of a set of double doors already guarded by two armed guards. He looks up when he hears John’s quick footsteps. His face changes to one of irritation.

“Doctor Watson, what might you be doing here?” He asks, sighing.

John comes to a stop in front of the doors. “Is he in there?”

Moran shrugs. “Who?”

“Will. William. Sherlock. Whatever you lot are calling him. Is he in there?” John says impatiently, breathing heavily.

Moran shrugs. “He might be.”

“With King Charles?” John asks.

Moran gives him a long look, which is as much of an answer as John is going to get. He licks his lips, shifting his feet, placing them further apart. “Look, he’s got to take a remedy. He needs it.”

“Oh, is that the remedy that is currently not on your person?” Moran asks, crossing his arms, eyebrows raised.

_Damn._ John had forgotten he is only in his unlaced doublet and trousers, with nowhere to store any remedies. Alright, a different tact then.

“Look, whatever King Charles wants to do to him, he is too weak for it. It would be in everyone’s best interests if Will were left alone.”

“You cannot stop his majesty, Doctor Watson.” Moran says, swanning into John’s personal space with a curled lip. “And you have no authority over the prince, either.”

“I’m just trying to help, as Will’s physician.” John counters, knowing he is standing on very thin ice. One wrong move and Moran could have him thrown out with just a word to Moriarty. 

“’Will’? Is that what you’re calling him now? Very intimate, don’t you think?” Moran says. 

“He’s my patient, it helps to be on a first-name basis.” John says, spitting the words at Moran.

Suddenly, from behind the doors, there is a cry, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Both men turn to the sound, and John tenses as he recognises the cry as Will’s. He makes for the doors, but they are blocked by the two guards, and Moran puts his arm out in front of John, stopping him.

“Doctor Watson, I suggest that if you want to continue treating your patient, you return to his chambers and await his return. King Charles will have use of him as he pleases, as the prince’s husband, and there is nothing you can do to stop that.”

“You disgust me.” John spits, shaking his head.

“Oh, do I?” Moran says, crossing his arms again. There is another cry from behind the door, fainter this time, and John feels bile rise in his throat. “Well, if you find this all so disagreeable, I will let my master know you wish to leave your position. I am sure you are aware of Doctor Culverton Smith, yes?”

John sucks in a sharp breath, nodding. Oh yes, he has most certainly heard of King Charles’s personal physician; a man for whom any oath of care over a patient is seemingly not worth his time. He cares only for the king, barely sparing others a glance their way. He suits Magnussen perfectly.

“Yes.” He spits.

“Well, with you gone, I am sure His Majesty would not mind lending Doctor Smith’s services to Sherlock. Imagine how much…. _care,_ Smith would take of him.” Moran says, eyes dark and dangerous.

John bites the inside of his cheek, chest heaving. He cannot hear anything from behind the double doors now, but lord knows what is going on, and if he wants to stick around and help Will through whatever is happening, he needs to remain mutinous on a small scale, to be able to support him but also stick by his side, not risk his position through defending the man.

He glares at Moran, stepping away from the man. “Make sure he is brought to me a soon as King Charles is…. _finished_ with him.”

Moran nods once, rolling his eyes. “Go and wait for your patient, Doctor Watson.”

John turns his back and walks away without another word.                                                                             

* * *

 

Will swings the candelabra at Magnussen’s head, but he finds his movement is stopped by a strong grip around his wrist. Magnussen has reached out and stopped his swing without even looking up at the man, and now he holds Will’s attack in the palm of his hand, literally.

“Oh, Sherlock, you think I would not notice?” Magnussen purrs, tutting.

Will fights against him with all he is worth, but eventually drops the candelabra when Magnussen’s grip becomes bone breaking. The candelabra hits the floor with a thud, and he lets out a cry as Magnussen pulls him over to the four-poster bed by his wrist. He is flung down on the mattress, scrambling under himself to get some balance, but Magnussen is upon him, leaning over him, panting with exertion.

“Oh, my dear, I can see how desperately you want to get away. Do not worry. I will not hurt you. Not yet.” The man springs away from him, kneeling up on the mattress. Will watches him, hands grabbing tightly at the sheets below him, clinging on for dear life. “You see, as beautiful as you are, you are a little…. rough around the edges now. Years of imprisonment does that, I suppose. What I really crave, really _desire,_ is that boy in the portrait. So innocent, and yet so petulant. You are not that boy, not yet, but with a bit of cherishing and some time to let yourself grow beautiful, then you shall be that boy.” He leans forward again, whispering in Will’s ear. “And then I shall have you properly.”

Will is aware he is breathing heavily, raggedly. He does not feel relief, that Magnussen does apparently not want to take ownership of his body this night, for he knows it is only prolonging the inevitable, and a scorching anxiety settles in his gut. He would vomit, if there were any food inside him.

“Besides, I think I shall save you, until I am seated on your family throne, my victory over you and your kin complete. Now, let me hold you, my dear.” Magnussen says, “Let me _touch_ you.”

Magnussen climbs into the bed behind him, manhandling Will until he is settled beside him, his back to Magnussen’s front.

He closes his eyes, retreating into his mind, desperately trying to find refuge somewhere. He goes to John’s room, surrounds himself in the memories of the one man on his side. He is not sure if it is enough, but he hopes these memories will get him through what is seemingly only the prelude of what is to come.                                                                            

* * *

 

John has not slept.

He is surprised that he has not worn a hole in the floor with his pacing, but the stone remains solid and unmoving beneath him, and it is a relief, to have something to ground him, as scenario after scenario has run through his mind through the night.

Over and over, he has asked himself if there was something more he could have done, to help Will, but he knows it is no good; wondering about what he could have done is not the same as actually having done something, and he is not sure there is anything he could have done, without dire consequences for the both of them.

‘ _Come on Watson, pull yourself together’_ , he tells himself, running a hand through his hair as early morning light begins to peek its way in through the windows. He looks towards the bed, the four-poster looking cosy and inviting, and tries not to remember how he had woken up this time the day previous, with its other occupant safe and peaceful. _‘Come on man, the best thing you can do for him now is tend to his injuries and lend him support.’_

Will’s personal physician, that is what John is. So that is what me must be. And in his mind, he can imagine punching Magnussen over and over, until the man feels the pain that Will must be feeling.                                                                                            

* * *

 

John’s heart lurches in his chest and he takes a quick few steps to the door when it creaks open, revealing an extremely pale Will. Graham holds the door open for the other man as he shuffles in, and he catches John’s gaze for a brief second, his eyes swimming with sorrow. John gives him a nod of thanks, and Graham closes the door quietly behind him, leaving John alone with Will.

Will is making his slow way towards the bed, having not yet acknowledged John. John stands there, hands clenching and unclenching into fists, not quite sure how to approach the man. Will settles on the bed, removing his unlaced doublet so that he is left in only his trousers and a white shirt. He lies down on his side, facing away from the room, and lets out a long breath. 

John hesitates for a moment more, distracting himself by adding another log to the fire he had ensured would be roaring, filling the room with heat for Will’s return. He needs to check Will out, but he does not want to push the man, who is obviously feeling fragile.

“John.” Will’s voice suddenly calls, quiet and cracked. “Please come here.”

“What is it?” John asks, approaching the bed and rounding it so that he can see Will’s face. The man’s eyes flick up to him, blood-shot and wide.

“Can you just… lie there, please?” He asks awkwardly, tentatively shifting his body a little, giving John some space on the bed.

“You sure?” John asks.

Will nods, breath stuttering for a moment before he closes his eyes. John edges down onto the bed until he is lying on his side, facing Will. He waits for the man to take the lead of whatever this is they are doing, trying to keep his breathing as calm and even as possible.

Will’s eyes are closed for a long while, and John simply listens to the man’s breathing and the crackling of the fire. Then, they open, and Will looks at him tiredly. “I know what you’re thinking.”

John blinks. “What am I thinking?”

“That he must have done things to me, must have forced himself on- _in_ me.” Will says, breath hitching a little.

John bites his lip, tentatively asking. “Did he?”

“No.” Will shakes his head.

“Oh,” John says, relief coursing through his veins. “I thought…”

“So did I.” Will admits, closing his eyes once again. “It seems he wants to wait, until he sits on my family’s throne, have me as some sort of… _celebration._ Besides, he thinks I am too ugly like this, wants me to look more like Sherlock Holmes used to. All _innocent.”_

John’s mouth gapes, and he shuts it closed. His relief is soured, a crawling anxiety settling into his stomach. There is no better or worse in this situation, but he wonders if having Will wait, in horrid anticipation for the day when he will have him, is worse than Magnussen taking the man unexpectedly. It is impossible to tell; the best thing would be for him to leave Will alone completely, but John does not think that is likely. The poor man had been so tense, the previous day, and now John knows that this is the reason, the ongoing fear of it happening sometime in the future, well, he worries whether Will will be able to relax at all, from now on. Not that he probably has had much chance to relax, to not always be looking behind him for any threat, with the life he has had.

Well, John reckons that, in whatever way he can, he will have Will’s back, and defend him if needed. Help him. “Will, I am _so_ sorry I didn’t figure what Magnussen intended earlier, truly I am. But, there has to be something I can do, to help you. We could tell him you’re too sick, or your body is not strong enough. There’s a way we can fake some symptoms, some remedies I can give you that wouldn’t actually harm you.”

Will purses his lips, looking up at John. “John. It is of no consequence. Do you think that will stop him? Magnussen is persistent, every move me makes towards me is somehow perverted by his obsession with me. It is inevitable, John. He is always going to get his way. I know men like him, and Magnussen is far worse than any of them.” 

John’s words get caught in his throat, the sudden sadness that pulls him down cutting off his air. Will should not be normalising Magnussen’s behaviour, excusing it because the man is truly terrible. The fire might be crackling in the grate, but a cold chill has worked its way down John’s spine. Things have taken a turn for the worse, and he fears they will only get darker.

“What did he do?” He asks carefully, voice merely a whisper.

Will takes a deep breath, exhaling shakily. “Touched me. Nothing more.”

“Touched you where?”

Will closes his eyes. “Everywhere. Just…. running them over me, all night. Even when he was sleeping.”

“And you? Did you sleep?” John asks, although he already knows the answer, and when Will shakes his head, he sighs. He goes to suggest a sleeping draught, to let the man rest, but Will begins speaking before he can.

“I feel… battered, as though Magnussen has indented himself on my body, embossed his ownership all over it. I am his possession.” Will spits, teeth biting into his bottom lip, drawing blood.

“No, you are not.” John insists, indignation rising within him like a flood. “That’s ridiculous. A marriage certificate is not the same as a slavery certificate.”

“In Magnussen’s head, I believe it is, and that is exactly what Moriarty and he want of me, John!” He brings his hands up to his face, running his fingers over his forehead, pressing the flesh so hard it goes white. “I can’t get it- _him_ out of my head, and that was just him _touching_ me, John! What am I going to do when he really gets his way?”

“No, stop it! He didn’t ‘just’ do anything. He touched you inappropriately without your consent. That isn’t nothing, that is vile! Do not feel ashamed, do not feel you are weak for being upset. Anyone would be, it does not make you weak!” John insists, sitting up in his fervour.

“But _I_ shouldn’t be as impacted as anyone else, John!” Will says, almost shouting he is so frustrated. “Not with my mind palace!”

“Hang on.” John says. “Your what?”

“My mind palace, John.” Will says, “It is a system which was taught to me years ago by a man also imprisoned by a previous owner. It helps me sort through information and feelings and file them away or delete them, but now, apparently it is broken, and the memories won’t delete or go into their correct place.”

Understanding dawns on John. “Is that what you meant last night? When you said you could delete or file away emotions?”

“Yes.” Will says. “It helps me to cope. You said it was bad for me to do that, but now I cannot do it, it won’t _work_ , and I do not know how _else_ to cope, John.”

How John wishes in this moment he wasn’t right. Wishes he hadn’t given Will the advice of the previous evening. He had known that what the man was doing, cutting off his emotions, was unhealthy, but he had not known the man had an established and functioning system which worked for him. Now, Will is confused, his defence broken, John’s words an embarrassing admonishment for him. And this, this situation here, is far worse than anything else they have seen thus far, and Will is understandably fragile, and in desperate need of the warm hand of comfort, which he normally takes in his coping mechanism, but which now seems to have failed him. Well, John will do what he can now, be the comforting hand on Will’s shoulder instead, and whilst his knowledge of mental wellbeing is not as broad and comprehensive as that of physical, he wonders if there is something Will might be able to try, in order to help himself. He will think it over, but first-

“Will, I am sorry, I didn’t fully understand.” He says. He reaches forwards, and prises Will’s fingers away from his face, sighing at the red marks that are left on the other man’s face. “Please, let me get you something, to help you sleep. Things may seem clearer when you are better rested.”

Will looks unsure, but he gives a small nod, shifting further down onto the mattress. John climbs off to fetch a sleeping remedy, but soon returns, perching on the edge of the bed and making sure Will swallows the whole lot.

“John,” Will says, licking his lips and not making eye contact with John. “Will you…. Stay? Please?”

John nods. “Yeah, of course, I can tend to-”

“No,” Will says, “no, I meant… here, on the bed, like you just were?”

John blinks, setting the empty vial on the side table. “If you’re sure?”

Will nods, and so John shifts to lie down next to Will once again. He is not sure what this means, for them, and he admonishes himself for thinking that lying next to another man whilst he sleeps is conducive towards anything other than friendship; they had shared the carriage for three days, for goodness sake, Will predominantly sleeping then, too! But… it feels different, Will’s request coming from a vulnerable and… intimate part of himself. John is not sure how, but the ground has seemingly shifted under his feet, and now, as he watches Wil settle further into sleep, the worry and care of friendship, turns into something much more significant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief summary: John realises that Magnussen intends to spend the night with Will sexually, and he tries to stop him, but is threatened with losing his position by Moran, and decides it would be best if he can help Will whilst still keeping his position. Meanwhile, Magnussen makes known his intention to fully take Will when the other man looks more like he did in the portrait of him, and when Magnussen sits on his family's throne. Whilst not taking him fully, he does touch Will inappropriately.   
> In the morning after, Will asks John to stay with him, lying on the bed, and confesses that his mind palace is shaken and he does not know how he can process what Magnussen has done to him. John promises to think of a way to help him whilst Will sleeps.   
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> In an earlier draft of this chapter, I did have Magnussen take Will completely, but it just didn't feel right, and so I altered it a bit, although what Magnussen does to him is still upsetting and completely vile. I actually split this chapter in half, as it got so long, and so i will post the second half tomorrow, as well as having the usual update on Monday. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, comments and kudos are always appreciated! And as always, thank you to those who have left kudos and comments already, they really do make my day!


	12. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise, I haven't really proof read this one; I'm working on one of the later chapters right now, and it is testing me!! 
> 
> TW: Reference to rape/non-con

John has been thinking, hard, for the past few hours, and as Will begins to shift next to him, he is determined to suggest what has come to fruition to him, in the hopes it will help. He sits up, propping some pillows behind him as Will stirs, and eventually, his steady gaze is met by Will’s own. The man has slept soundly, thank goodness, and his eyes seem brighter, clearer, when he meets John’s gaze.

“How long have I been sleeping?” He asks, running a hand over his face.

“A few hours. It is only midday.” John replies.

Will nods, coming to sit up next to John, stifling a yawn.

“I’ve had a think, about your…. Mind thing.” John begins.

“Mind palace.” Will replies.

“Right, yes, that.” John says, taking a deep breath. “You say that you file your emotions away, or you delete them. Do ever properly process them?”

Will shakes his head. “No. It’s…. easier to cope when I don’t feel anything. I file them to process, but by processing, I’m more just… evaluating whether they were worth facing or not. Normally, they’re not.” His cheeks are a little red. John can see this is going to be a heavy conversation, but it is also an incredibly important one.

“Will, you don’t need to feel ashamed with me, about discussing this kind of thing. I know you think it is a weakness, to become helpless at the hand of what you’re feeling, but…I’ve been there, too, honestly.” John says. If this is to work, Will is going to need all the surety and honesty that he can, and to share these things with Will… well, it does not feel like a hardship.

“You have?” Will asks cautiously. John nods; the other man has probably worked it all out with just a look, but that he is playing to John’s rules, is seemingly being amenable, gives John the confidence to go on.  

“When I was in the army, and my injury occurred, it was easier to lay in bed all day, as my wound healed, and not think of anything. Numbing the mental pain was as good as using remedies to numb the physical pain. There were things I saw, and things that I felt, in the army that left me feeling…exposed, raw and unprotected. I felt so deserted, that it was easier just to stop, and not process anything, but that isn’t any good. It’s better to feel those emotions, process them, and learn to deal with them. And there are ways to do that, you just have to find the one that works for you. In your case, it could very well be your trick.”

“It’s not a trick, John.” Will says, but his tone is not unkind, and he seems curious.

“Whatever it is, I think maybe this could work.” John says. “With just a little rewiring.”

Will frowns, but he nods, allowing John to go on. The man does, turning to face Will and gesticulating avidly with his hands. “Why not use your existing coping mechanism to face the emotions on your own terms? Sometimes, everything can be overwhelming, and it would be better to take control of what is happening to you in a way that you are completely sure of. Instead of just using your mind to push everything away, process and face those emotions in a controlled area. That way, you’ll be able to help yourself without hurting yourself.”

Will contemplates this, his eyes flicking back and forth. Eventually he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and speaks. “That might work.”

John smiles. “Give it a try and see if it does. If not, then we’ll figure something else out. And remember, I’m always here, if you want to speak about anything.”

Will does not look him in the eye, but he whispers a small “Thank you, John.” And for John that is enough. Will does not owe him anything, at this moment. The man has been through enough. John’s only hope is that his own experiences can help a man going through something truly terrible to not loose himself in the storm.                                                                              

* * *

 

Will looks down into the full and steaming bath of water, legs shaking under him. Memories of long ago threaten to rise and mingle with those of Magnussen’s hands all over him, touching him, _groping_ him. He sucks in a deep breath, carefully lifting his right leg and dipping his foot into the bath. The water is warm, a liquid summer day, and it encourages him to gently lift himself fully into the bath, setting carefully on his behind. The surrounding warmth is reassuring, no memories of ice-cold shock threatening to break loose, and as long as does not put his head under the water, he should be fine. Besides, the desperate need to feel cleaned of Magnussen’s presence is overwhelming.

He can hear John padding around behind the screen that provides him some privacy as he bathes, and it comes as further comfort to know the man is nearby. He feels a little… bashful, embarrassed, about his behaviour of earlier that day, on the bed. Not once before, not since the weakness of childhood, before he trained himself out of it, has he craved human comfort in such a way. But there is something reassuring about John, his steadiness, his seemingly non-judgmental manner, that had compelled Will to ask the man for his comfort earlier. He does not regret having done so, and John had seemed willing, but whether it will happen again… Will does not know.  

He has gained a lot of clarity since returning from Magnussen’s chambers, the night spent in his grip second now to the memory of lying on his own bed, with John. Still, it lingers each time he looks down at himself, at his naked body, and every time he closes his eyes, Magnussen’s odious face is there, screwed up in perverted pleasure.

Time to put John’s suggestion to the test, he thinks.

He closes his eyes, settling into his mind, becoming familiar with his surroundings. Once he is comfortable, he allows the pounding at the door in, and faces his demons.

A dark figure, ill-formed, a smudge of soot in a foggy scene, approaches. The fog swoops in, filling in parts of the figure, giving it dimension, personality. Charles Magnussen stands before him, eyes hungry, pearly teeth gnashing against each other.

He rushes forward, hands grabbing for Will, and Will freezes, limbs turning to blocks of unmovable ice. The fog-Magnussen, however, goes straight through him, dispersing into the air. What he leaves behind, however, are smoky tendrils, which wrap themselves around his body, clinging tightly to his limbs. They scream out his fear, desperation, shame, growing tighter as the emotions grows stronger. Will shuts his eyes, mouth open in a silent scream, the emotions coursing through him, through his blood.

It is overwhelming, and he loses his footing, falling to his knees. Such raw pain he has never felt, not since childhood, when he had no way to cope with what had become of him. He screams, overcome by it all. This is too much, too much that he cannot process what he is feeling, only become victim to it.

“Will!” A voice calls, and he gasps, trying to push against the vines, gain his footing.

“Will!” the voice calls again, and he struggles to his feet, opening the nearest door, throwing the vines in and slamming it shut. He pants, sliding to the floor against the locked door, head in his hands.                                                                                

* * *

 

“Will!” John calls, holding the man’s arms up as he begins to slip under the water. “Will!”

Will suddenly startles, coming back to himself, spilling water over the side of the bath. John keeps a gentle grip on the man until he has gained his balance in the slippery bath. 

Will is breathing heavily, chest heaving. John can see his ribcage moving, and he turns away, giving the man a moment of privacy.

“I tried,” the man admits, and John turns back to him. “I tried to face it, but it was…. too much.”

“That’s fine.” John gives him a reassuring smile. “It was the first time; it was not going to go as smoothly as you would like. I’d give yourself a rest and try again.”

Will blinks rapidly, nodding slightly. “Thank you, for earlier, that was… good.”

“No problem. The way I see it, you need control of something; there are a lot of things out of your control, and the best way to stop those bastards from winning you, is to fight them by helping yourself.” John says, coming to rest against the side of the table, arms open, face honest. “You’re unsure of who you are, and who you want to be, well, be someone who takes control of themselves, despite the circumstances.”

Will nods again, eyes gazing into the far distance. “I would like that.”

“Good.” John smiles.

Will’s attention comes back to John for a moment, focussing on his face. “John, I….I am used to not having anyone to confide in, to talk to, about all….. _this,”_ he gestures vaguely with his hand, and John smirks. “It is new to me, and it is difficult for me to trust in… my emotions, in being open with them, with someone else-”

“Will, you really don’t have to if you-” John interrupts, but is cut off himself,

“What I’m trying to say, John.” Will breathes, shifting carefully in the bathtub. “Is that I trust you.”

Warmth bursts in John’s chest, creeping up his throat and to his face, breaking him out into a smile.

“Good. I’m glad. I trust you, too.” John says, and Will nods. The other man looks uncomfortable, although because of the conversation or his injuries, John is not sure.

“And if you want to talk about…. _things,_ then I would not be opposed to listening.” Will says, and he quickly turns his attention to the bath once again.

John bites his lip, trying to contain the smile gracing his face. This is a marker, he thinks, in their alliance, friendship, whatever this is. There is a connection between them, and if John could describe it as a physical presence, he would say they were building bridges, built on something, for the first time in Will’s life, probably, good.                                                                               

* * *

 

Much later, Will sits on the bed, eyes closed, sinking deep into his mind once again. It is his third trip today, and this time, he is determined to be successful.

It had been difficult, for him to admit to John about the mechanisms he has in place, but now that he has done it, he does not feel any hardship, or embarrassment, but instead, he feels calmer. Grounded, as if John is an anchor for him, in the middle of the ocean, and John has prevented him from being pulled into the whirlpool, bringing him to calm waters. And now, he has the chance to help himself in a way that he never has before.

As he had said to John, he has never had anyone in which to confide the private, vulnerable parts of him, and having done so, and not faced rebuttal, or scorn. John truly is the kindest man he has ever met; he had been convinced of it before, and this has only enforced what he already knew, setting it in stone.

It helps, when he stands in his mind for the third time, and faces the foggy figure of Magnussen, running forward, grabbing for him, to think of John, of what they have shared with each other, of John’s words.

_‘Face those emotions on your own terms.’_

He is in control here; Magnussen has no authority in this domain, and all those things that he has forced on Will, that he and countless men before him has decided he must be put through…they will not win.

It is easier said than done, and as those now familiar vines wrap themselves around his limbs, he can feel their potency seeping into him, lacing him with an exhaustion that makes him want to surrender, but he fights on, the remembrance of John’s encouragement the shield he needs. The vines fall away, snaking away from him desperately. They leave behind a skin on his body, something murky and unwanted, but as he watches them snake away, into the misty fog which surrounds him, Will feels calm, and controlled. Better. This is much better.

He sends those vines to the deepest pits of his mind, conjuring up a cell especially for them. They whisper their taunts, calling out for him, hurling abuse, but he locks the door shut, and walks away from them.

He heads, instead, for John’s room. He can feel the heat emanating from it as he approaches, a warm glow coming from behind the small oak door. The warmth calls to him as well, and unlike the vines, he follows the beckoning.

John is not in the room, when he enters, but the markers of his presence are all there, and Will allows himself to settle on the cushions and throws, the room still taking on the appearance of the carriage, taking respite in the calm, enveloping warmth of John’s room. It is like a small fire, which has settled into glowing embers, reminding Will of the comforting warmth of a fire in the biting cold winters, or its companionship when he would sit, alone, in the autumn, waiting for his owner to return.

He could remain in here for a long while, basking in the warmth, but there is a knock on the door. He realises the knock is to the door of his chambers, back in reality, and he reluctantly leaves John’s room, shutting the door behind him, hoping to preserve its warmth.                                                                                   

* * *

 

 Will surfaces to reality just as the doors burst open and Moriarty strides in, frowning. His eyes flick over John, who has stepped in front of the bed, and over to Will, who sits there, meeting his gaze. Moriarty’s eyes are like thunder.

“Good to see you lounging about in bed, Sherly, seeing as you have absolutely nothing you should be doing.” Moriarty says, eyebrows raised, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Oh. Will had forgotten, in the events of last night, Moriarty’s task for him, which he should have started by now, going by the man’s irritated demeanour.

“Excuse me, my lord.” John interrupts, voice stern. “His Highness has not been feeling well; I have prescribed him rest until he is feeling stronger.”

“What? Why, what is wrong with you?” Moriarty asks, looking Will up and down. Will gives him a long look, wondering if the man really is oblivious, or only acting that way. When Moriarty does not reply, but only shrugs his shoulders, Will replies in a low tone.

“It was my wedding night.”

Moriarty’s face seems to freeze, captured in an expression of surprise. He seems to look closer at Will, his lip curling. “I see. Did he-”

“He did not take his hands off me, all night.” Will replies. He watches, perplexed, as Moriarty seems to grow more irritated; had he not even contemplated that Magnussen might want to be intimate with Will, once they were married?

“And I suppose he intends to do the same this night also?” Moriarty asks, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of Will.

Will has not given it much thought, still wrapped up in the memories of what has already happened, and dealing with them, but, “Yes,” he says, “yes, I suppose so.”

God, he hopes not.

Moriarty sighs, rolling his eyes, hands on his hips. He turns to John. “And what say you, Doctor? Can he not work also?”

John sucks in a deep breath, pushing out his chest. “I mean, he could, My Lord, but I believe the ongoing treatment of him by His Majesty the King will only seek to impact negatively on his ability to work. Furthermore, I do not think it wise for his long-term health, for him to be up and about when he could be recovering.”

John says this all with a calm, professional tone, and it is almost amusing to watch Moriarty become defenceless in the face of medical reasoning. The man taps his boot against the floor, thinking, until he finally says. “Alright. Fine. I will see what I can do. Tomorrow, alright, Sherly? Tomorrow you will start.”

Will nods, and watches as Moriarty leaves. Before he does, the man turns back to him, and gives one last intentional look from Will to John with raised eyebrows. His threat over John’s head still stands. Then he is gone with a slam of the door. John seems to deflate, chest caving in as he lets out a long breath. Will studies him for a moment. “Thank you. You didn’t have to…. exaggerate the truth like that.”

John looks up at him. “I wasn’t exaggerating the truth; I don’t want you leaving that bed for the rest of the day.” His tone is stern, but there is the slight hint of a joke in there also. “And hopefully, Moriarty can do something to stop Magnussen from having his bloody hands all over you every day.”

The warm embers which embody John’s room in his mind seem to bathe him in their warmth in real life. The warmth is there, in John’s words, in his eyes and the small, joking smile which graces his lips. Will cannot help but smile back, expressing his thanks.                                                                          

* * *

 

It seems that Moriarty is a man of his word, for not too long after his unexpected visit, Graham passes on the message that Will is reprieved of Magnussen’s company that night, but he will have to return the following, and that said pattern will continue until they will be ready to leave for Sherrinford. It is still not ideal, and John sucks in his cheeks in displeasure, but it is more than they had before, and Will allows himself to relax, just a little bit.

He decides he will try his best to keep up with John’s suggestion for facing his emotions, controlling them, but with the ever-present memory of Magnussen’s touch all over his body, he knows that it will be a long and arduous process, and, as much as it irritates him, he will not be fine by the end of the day. When he looks over to John, however, the man fiddling around with his medicine bag, he knows he will not have to do it alone, and there is that anchor again, tethering him to the shore.                                                                                         

* * *

 

John is a light sleeper, has been since his time in the army, and so when Will begins to shift and moan in his sleep, John is awake instantly, fully aware of what the man is going through; a nightmare.

He sits up in the bed, eyes blinking rapidly as they get used to the dim light of the night, finding Will in the foggy darkness. In the moonlight which filters through the window next to the bed, John can make out the lines and creases of Will’s forehead as he frowns.

He sighs. He has been through _this_ enough times himself, he knows the drill.

He calmly calls Will’s name, not touching him is necessary. It takes him a few calls, getting louder in volume, before Will snaps out of sleep, sitting up quickly, chest heaving.

“Will, it’s alright, it’s just me, John. You had a nightmare.” John reassures, sitting back, giving Will some space.

Will takes a few deep breaths through his nose, closing his eyes briefly for a moment, before he opens them, annoyance and frustration clear. “That damn man.” He mutters, and John knows exactly who he is talking about.

John sighs. He supposes he could, at this point, give Will a spiel about how this is normal and part of the process of healing, after the pain, but the man does not need a lecture, not now, and he reckons that he can normalise this in a much more equal way; he wants to make sure Will does not feel alone.

“I dream about Harry a lot. My sister. I dream about her being trapped in our home, the flames rising around her. I dream that I’m trapped there too, but that I’m not _really_ there, like a ghost. So, I must watch her die. I have to watch as the flames consume her, and I can do _nothing._ And it _hurts._ ”

When John finishes, he is aware of Will’s gaze on him and the tears in his own eyes. He discreetly bows his head and runs a hand across them, clearing away the liquid, but Will is still watching, eyes piercing, and so John gives him a shrug and a bashful smile. “Even years after she died, I still dream about her some nights, and it can make the pain raw.”

“Are you trying to tell me that I will be having nightmares about this mess for years?” Will says with raised eyebrows.

John sighs. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I mean, yes, possibly, but what I’m trying to say is…. It’s normal, and it’s fine, and you don’t need to be embarrassed in front of me.”

Will seems to consider this, and after a while he nods, although he looks frustrated, still, and bashful.

“Do you still want me to stay?” John asks, suddenly aware of their close proximity, and how he had, apparently, accidentally fallen asleep on the bed earlier, when ensuring Will was sleeping soundly. He had lain his head down for one moment…

Will’s cheeks go a little red, but his face shuts down into a look of indifference. “It’s up to you.”

John purses his lips, but he decides not to say anything; he knows what Will is doing by now, and if the man does not want or know how to ask, John will provide the answer for him. “I would like to.”

Will blinks and looks away, lying down on his side, facing away from John. John smirks and lies down, facing the man’s back. When he wakes in the morning, he finds Will facing him, sleeping peacefully, and John smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter, comments and kudos greatly appreciated, and thank you to those who have already left some, as well as subscribed. 
> 
> See you on Monday for the regular update, I hope you enjoyed this bonus one.


	13. Knowledge is Power

The library is unlike anything Will has ever seen. He has been in cave systems before, explored their cavernous spaces, and that is the best likeness he can draw to Magnussen’s library; it is a cave constructed of books.

Towering stalagmites of paper and leather, held together by a wooden skeleton, lead off in row after row, as expansive as a cathedral. And like a cathedral, large stained-glass windows allow in streaming light, and where the light does not hit is catered for by candelabras dripping wax. Dotted around are tables and chairs, and in some spaces, pillowed and inviting seating. As Will, John, and Graham venture further into the library, Will sees there is one large table covered in a large map of the entire kingdoms of Sherrinford and Appledore.

He approaches it with interest, ignoring his aching limbs, and leans over it, inspecting every mountain range, and trailing river. The border between the two kingdoms is there, too, a grey snake-like mass cutting across the terrain. There are place names, and he recognises them, but to see the land laid out like this before him is exciting; it gives him clarity, and he banks this image in his mind, saving it to pour over later.

“Well, this looks as good a place as any.” John says, pointing to a nearby table with padded chairs.

Will nods, and they settle on either side of the table.

“You alright?” John asks, trying to catch Will’s gaze.

He nods, avoiding John’s gaze and from his doublet, Will pulls out the slip of paper Moriarty had given him and lays it flat out on the wood.

“I’ll just be over here, Your Majesty, don’t mind me.” Graham says from beneath his helmet; why the man has not removed it yet Will is not sure, but he simply nods and turns back to the riddle. 

“I’ve never seen such a place.” John murmurs, eyes tracking across the beamed ceiling.

“No, it’s really amazing.” Will agrees. If he pauses to contemplate it, he would have never thought he would ever be in such a place as this. There is knowledge at his fingertips, and he has a sudden thought. Surely, in this library, somewhere, there must be some information on the Moriartys, on the jewel that Moriarty is so desperate for him to look for. He could find out, get a firm grip of the situation, and maybe, possibly, there might be a chance at-

“Will, I’ve just had a thought.” John suddenly says, halting his thought process. “There has to be books on you in here somewhere. Surely we could find them….”

Yes, John is right. Surely there must be, if his disappearance and assumed death are such a big deal. He bites his lip, unsure how he feels about the possibility of finding out more about himself; will it impact him and who he is now? Maybe he will find out something about himself which will change his view of things? It is both nerve-wracking and exhilarating, like standing on the top of a cliff, wind battering you and the raging ocean below.

“Will?” John says, looking his way, a small frown on his face.

“Yes. Possibly.” Will says. “Would you do that for me? Whilst I get started on this?”

John smiles. “Yeah. Of course, I will.”

And so, their individual quests begin.                                                                                      

* * *

 

Later, Will finds himself alone, roaming one of the expansive aisles, eyes wandering over the dizzying number of books. Fortunately, the library has an efficient filing system, and it does not take him long to find ‘Moriarty’ in the history section. John is nearby, in the ‘H’ section, and Will tries to be as quiet as possible; he does not want John to know what he is looking for, not right now, when keeping the man ignorant in this situation seems to be best course of action, with Moriarty’s threat hanging over his head.

He runs his finger along the book spines, skimming the titles. He stops when he comes across a book titled ‘A True Account of the Moriartys of Appledore.’ He pulls the large tome out, almost toppled by its weight, and he rests it carefully down on the floor, kneeling next to it. It is extremely old, that he can see from the aged leather covering.

Something catches his attention in the corner of his eye, and he realises that there is a piece of parchment sticking out of the book, cutting into the thick body. He runs his fingers along the top, and realises there are actually two slips of parchment, one hidden behind the other. He pulls the book open at the site of the first tab, and it immediately strikes him how little dust comes out of the book, for a tome so old. Furthermore, the slip of parchment which marks the page is much too light and new to have been faded by time and a lack of light. From the piece of parchment and the build-up of dust on the top of the book, Will would estimate this book was last used one to two weeks ago. Interesting.

Upon evaluating the contents of the page, he recognises it as what must be the original version of the riddle he has to decipher. It is word for word identical, and so therefore whoever had been tasked with finding this riddle must have copied it down on a new piece of parchment. He pulls out his copy of the riddle from his doublet pocket, and when he compares the sheets of paper, he can see they must have been from the same stock of paper, both are so similar. So, these markers were made by whoever noted down the riddle for him.

The marking of this page is obvious, but he turns to the next marked page, curious. What could this tell him?

When he gets to the page, he freezes, brain working hard. This page documents what it calls ‘The Moriarty Jewels.’ It is almost as if whoever marked the pages planned it for him, almost as if they are giving him a helping hand, as if they know exactly what Moriarty is after…Moriarty hadn’t wanted more people than necessary involved, but it seems that decision has already been made for him, and Will thanks whoever this person is for their hindsight as he commits his full intention to the page in front of him.

As he reads, it becomes obvious to Will why Moriarty is so keen to find this remaining jewel. One line in particular stands out to him:

_‘When third jewel be touched by sibling three, power over life immortal shall be given to thee.’_

He blinks, putting his face closer to the page, ignoring the protesting pain of his limbs. It seems that the moment the third jewel is touched by a Moriarty sibling, there must be some synergy between the bloodline and the jewel itself, and ‘power over life immortal shall be given to thee.’

Something curdles in his stomach, thick like tar, making him feel nauseous. ‘Power over life immortal.’

Something is at work here, something much more than Magnussen taking Will for his husband and invading the neighbouring kingdom, whilst providing for the Moriartys in return for their help. James and Janine Moriarty are dealing in things which Will has barely given thought: magic. It is a word he has heard whispered, like a curse word, in back rooms, or joked about in brawls of tarnished honour, but it is never something he has contemplated sincerely. That is, until, he both felt and saw the effects of the jewel around Moriarty’s neck, of Janine digging into his mind and uncovering forgotten truths, and now, by the testament of this book, the combined power of all three of these Moriarty jewels will bring about something paramount, world-changing. And he cannot help it but he feels tendrils of….anticipation, excitement, within him, of having something revealed to him that is more powerful that Magnussen could ever hope to be, or even Moriarty, if the man is relying on Will to deliver the answer to his problem. And now that he has this knowledge at his fingertips, he keeps it tucked safe in his mind, devours it word for word, for he has heard it said that knowledge is power, and knowing something that puts him on a level footing with Moriarty is valuable. He feels a desperate sense of urgency, to find the answer before Moriarty begins to pester him for it, so that he can evaluate what to do, for he knows that were he to sit back and serve Moriarty what he wants on a plate, he could not live with himself. He has no idea what he is going to do, only a couple of weeks ago, he was worried about whether Warton would beat him for not shining the man’s boots thoroughly enough, and he has to stifle a manic laugh at how circumstances have changed, but there is someone new, waiting for him to step into their shoes; _Sherlock Holmes,_ and it feels as if he is squirming, impatient to solve this mystery. As John had said, the best way to stop Moriarty and Magnussen from winning him is by helping himself, and this mystery appeals to him, he is drawn to it, Sherlock Holmes is drawn to it. And for the first time in his life, he feels he has a purpose to help himself first, instead of others.

In the cold light of Magnussen’s treatment of him, it feels good, refreshing, like a cool goblet of water, to think that he can improve himself.                                                                                        

* * *

 

The days go by, and the books on the desk in front of him begin to grow into small mountains. It is incredibly frustrating, for the riddle itself is simple enough, but one needs an intimate knowledge of the land and all it contains in order to unravel it; this Will lacks, only having snippets of information from the places he has been. And so, most of his time thus far has been spent researching various parts of the land and seeing how they correspond to the words of the riddle.

He is vaguely aware of John’s presence in the background, as the man scours the library for any and all books on Sherlock Holmes and the Holmes dynasty that he can. Will himself has been so wrapped up in solving this riddle that he has not given John’s quest for information on himself much thought. The more time he invests in solving this mystery, the less he feels constrained by his situation, the less nauseous, the less dirty he feels when he returns from the nights he has to spend with Magnussen. Moriarty has seemingly placed a modicum of trust in him, by not constantly looking over Will’s shoulder, and it makes him wonder more about their relationship, if he trusts Will with something so vitally important to him. Moriarty is like a blurred reflection, which you cannot quite see in a dirty mirror; something not completely understood, enigmatic. It is fascinating.

It is late, he is not expected to be with Magnussen this night, and he allows himself to rest his head on the table for a moment. He feels a deep exhaustion, which weighs down his limbs like heavy weights. John has been providing him with sleep remedy after sleep remedy, but there is still a pain deep within him and sleep offers him barely any rest, the memory of Magnussen seemingly having free reign when he is unconscious. And whilst John’s system is working, and he is becoming more accustomed to facing what he is feeling, pushing it away is draining, and he is not yet strong enough to dismiss the vines, which sneak out of their dungeon regularly, and when he returns from Magnussen, he has to battle so hard not to let everything run loose.

“Hey.” John soft voice says, as the man approaches, and Will looks up to see him approaching with a book in his hand. He has a small frown on his face, and Will nods, knowing the man is asking after his wellbeing.

“Just needed a moment.” He explains. John nods again, accepting this, without complaint. Will shifts in his chair; he is still getting used to being honest about himself with someone who will not scorn or punish him for it, although John being John does help, as Will has not, since their first meeting, doubted the man’s kindness.

John sits down in the chair next to his, placing the book he has on the table. His fingertips rest upon the cover, tracing a random pattern over the leather, and Will can see John wants him to address it.

“What is that?” He asks.

“This, I think, is the most definite and comprehensive account of your life that I have found.” John says, pushing the books towards him. It is rather small and thin, which does not surprise him, and Will takes it, opening the front cover.

‘The short life of Prince William Sherlock Scott Holmes’, the title reads, written by a man called Ronan Dartoyle. He swallows, a lump rising in his throat. Seeing those words there, printed on the page in block script, it makes him feel uneasy. What claim does this man, _Ronan Dartolye,_ have to Will’s life? What does he suppose he knows? He is aware that it is because the man knows more than he does, is able to step away and look at it from a completely unbiased view, that Will is apprehensive to read in his words an account of who he was. He is, in a sense, jealous of this author, for knowing more about _him,_ and staring at his full name, written there, he begins to feel disconnected, an empty vessel which can be defined by a total stranger.

He flips the cover closed and pushes it away, wiping his hands together. “You tell me what it says.”

John pauses for only a moment before doing so, opening the book and flipping through the pages. He hesitates for a second before saying, “It says you were taken when you were four years of age.”

Will sucks in a sharp breath, figures coming into his mind which should be weighed with significance, he supposes. He has been missing for eighteen years, according to John, so that would make him approximately twenty-two. He is not sure what to make of it.

“It says the kidnapping was unprecedented, that you should have been safe under your guard, but that the assailants overwhelmed the guards and grabbed you…” John carries on, watching Will carefully.

_Hands grabbing at him, pulling him away from his horse, Gladstone, the woodland surrounding him as imposing as his assailants._

“That is your first memory, isn’t it?” John asks him.

Will shrugs. “It was, but now there’s more inside here.” He taps his skull. “More faces and places that I do not know.”

“It’s all in here, if you want to look at it.” John says, sliding the book over to Will encouragingly. The man lets out a shaky sigh, letting his hand rest on the book for a moment before he pulls away. Will narrows his eyes.

“Have you read it all?” He asks.

“Yes.” John says, voice rough.

“What? What is it?” Will asks.

John sighs, and his jaw tightens, hands clenching into fists. Will deduces him immediately. “You’re angry.”

John nods. “Yes. Good deduction.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because it’s….” John runs a had through his hair. “Because I can see everything that was taken from you. It’s not fair.”

“What point is there in dwelling on it, John?” Will asks, honestly perplexed. “Those years were lost to me, and up until now I remembered _nothing_ of them. I could’ve been a prince, I could’ve lead armies or gotten an education by this point, but that didn’t happen, and I cannot go back and change that. So why bother being aggrieved by it?”

John sucks in his cheeks, shaking his head slightly.

“Be angry for me, by all means.” Will says. “But it does not matter John. The only life I’ve ever known is one of enslavement. This, all of this,” he gesticulates to their grand surroundings, to the fine clothes which clothe him. “It still seems so alien and bizarre to me, and so I cannot read a book of all that I might have been, when I am still trying to get to grips with this.”

John considers him for a moment before speaking. “You’re scared. Scared of what you might find out, of having to live up to what might be written there. Scared that what is written there, is the young boy that Magnussen and Moriarty think you are and want you to be.”

Will sighs. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to be able to read people….”

John smiles, and his hand creeps across the table, closer to Will’s own. “You’re right, you do not have to read this. I thought it might be useful to you, to tell you more about your family, and your childhood home, but you have to deal with this on your own terms.”

Will’s fingers twitch; he finds he wants to touch John’s hand, accept that reassurance, but he pulls himself back, hesitant to potentially wreck this honest conversation. “John, I do appreciate you going to all this effort…”

John holds up a hand. “It’s fine. Completely fine. I’ll leave it over here, in case you do want to have a look at some point.”

John places the book on the far corner of the table, alienating it from Will’s work. Will takes a deep breath; compartmentalising the situation where he is in control from the situation where his own life is dictated to him is calming, and he feels focussed. He turns back to the riddle and his annotations.

A while later, with John having dozed off in his chair next to Will, Will feels as though someone is watching him, and he glances up to see Graham facing him, although whether the man’s eyes are on him or not Will cannot tell due to the heavy helmet which sits on his head.  When the man notices Will has spotted him, he turns away, shifting in his seat a few feet away from him. Will blinks, unsure what to make of the situation. Graham is nice, far more than Will had been expecting, but apart from nice he is nothing, which worries Will. With the standard guards uniform and the heavy helmet, Will cannot deduce anything about the man. He could be anyone. Perhaps he should be more guarded.

He turns back to his work, glancing Graham’s way every now and again, but he never catches the man looking at him.                                                                                      

* * *

 

Later, when they are settled back in his chambers, Will wrapping himself in the fur throw John had discovered in the wardrobe which he finds he likes immensely, owing to its warmth, and John whistling softly as he stokes the fire, there is a knock on the door. John looks to Will as Graham enters, closing the door behind himself. This is extremely irregular, the guard normally only poking his head around the door, and so John stands in front of Will, shoulders tensed.

“Graham.” He says. “Anything wrong?”

“No, John, not exactly.” Graham replies, and his voice sounds nervous. Will frowns. “Only… I’m afraid I haven’t been truthful with you. My name is not Graham….”

He goes to remove his helmet, but John reads the movement as something else, and he grabs the poker from the fireplace. “Don’t-”

“I’m just taking my helmet off, John.” Graham reassures with placating hands. He bends his head forwards, tugging at the helmet. When it finally dislodges it, he lets it fall to the ground, and he bends his head up to meet Will’s gaze.

Brown eyes swimming with kindness and relief meet Will’s own, and suddenly Will is thrown back into a memory of long ago, plucked from oblivion by Janine, of a man with eyes just like that helping him to practice his swordsmanship, his large hands around Will’s own, directing the passage of his sword.

“My name is Gregory Lestrade, former captain of the guard for King Siger Holmes of Sherrinford. I now work undercover for His Royal Highness the Prince Regent Mycroft Holmes. Since Mycroft assumed the regency, my mission has been to find you, Sherlock, and now I have.”

Will stares, and stares, and stares. He understands now, what people mean when they say that they have seen a ghost, because this man, whose name is apparently not Graham, but Gregory Lestrade, seems to have translated directly from memory into reality. Everything, apart from some more wrinkles around his eyes and more grey hairs in his dark hair, is the same, if his memory serves him well. And in this instance, he is sure it has. He is, however, cautious, and so he frowns and says, “Prove it.”

Lestrade falters for only a moment before he reaches into his doublet, hand slipping under his breastplate, and pulls out something small, which he rests in his palm and holds out for Will. Will steps forward, clutching the fur throw around his shoulders. John leans forward too, still armed with the poker but seemingly at ease, or at least partially so.

In Lestrade’s palm rests a small signet ring, engraved with a coat of arms. A bloodhound, head held aloft, snout pointing, stands on rocky ground, silhouetted by a sun, rays encircling a perfect circle. “This belongs to your brother. It’s the family crest.”

Will tentatively picks the ring up, holding it in his palm. This is the first solid, physical connection he has had to his past, to his life as ‘Prince Sherlock Holmes’. This seems like an ironic twist of fate, considering his and John’s discussion of earlier. However, it feels good, to have these small, physical, tangible reminders. Here in front of him stands a man who knew him before his kidnapping and has now known him for a small while since, having been posing as ‘Graham’. He meets Lestrade’s eyes, sees sincerity and determination in them, and he knows the man is not fooling him.

“Keep the ring.” Lestrade says. He smiles. “It is yours anyway, My Lord.”

Will closes his hand over the ring, feeling the metal warm in his grip. John releases his hold on the poker, dropping it down on the table. He shakes his head, but there is a smile on his face. “Hang on, so you’re telling me you’ve been undercover this whole time? Right under Magnussen and Moriarty’s noses?”

“Yes, and I still intend to be, just for a little while longer. It is a pleasure to meet you properly, John. I must thank you, for being so kind to Sherlock, when so many aren’t. It was a big relief for me to see he had someone caring for him when you both arrived.” Lestrade held his hand out for John, who shook it, a mutual respect passing between the two men.

“I would have revealed myself to you sooner, but I had to wait for word from your brother, until he gave me the permission.”

“So, are you here to get Will out?” John asks.

“Not yet, but I promise you, Sherlock, I will get you out of here, but first, I need you to tell me everything you know about what James Moriarty is up to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter, kudos and comments always appreciated. 
> 
> As always, thank you for the support shown so far, it is greatly appreciated. 
> 
> See you on Friday for chapter 14; from here on in the chapters are going to get a little bit (and in some cases a lot) longer!


	14. High Stakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continuing support for my story. Enjoy this chapter.

Will has outlined to Lestrade all he knows. Most of it the man has been privy to already, being undercover as Will’s guard, and so has already related back to Mycroft. About the jewel, however, Lestrade does not know, and Will keeps it that way.

He had been purposefully vague with John about what exactly Moriarty is looking for by having Will solve the riddle, for the man’s own safety; what he does not know will not hurt him, if you will. But when it comes to Lestrade, Will is just as eager not to tell the man for completely different reasons.

Maybe what he is doing is wrong, he has absolutely no idea, but to him it feels like the sure thing to do, no matter whether it is right or wrong. The threat that hangs over John, the electric energy that thrums between himself and Moriarty… it feels like it is his to control. The information he had found on the Moriarty jewels in the library feels delicate, like an ice sculpture, and if he allows more people around it, it will begin to melt, and any control he has will be but a puddle on the ground, and Moriarty will stand, victorious, over it.

Control. That is what he wants, what he has always wanted, but only able to have in his own mind. Now, he has a chance to control something bigger; his own fate, John’s safety, and the game he finds himself a player in. What John does not know will not hurt him, and what Will does not tell Lestrade will not harm him were Mycroft to take any action.

Will wonders if Magnussen even knows exactly what Moriarty is after, the issue seems to be so secretive between the siblings and him. Will realises that no matter how much Moriarty must depend on Magnussen at this moment, providing him with resources and the ability to get what he wants, when he finally has it, Moriarty will be out from under the man’s thumb and there might be no stopping him.

Not unless Will can somehow get there before him or play him at his own game. And to do that, he will keep all this close to his chest, play his cards right. Will has never played a game before, let alone been dealt the cards, but Moriarty seems to want him to play, on the opposing side, and he cannot help himself. He will.

Lestrade seems to accept his explanation and relates the he will write to Mycroft at once with the new information. After that, he will see what the regent says about getting Will out of this place and to safety.

“I’m sorry. My natural instinct is to get you out right now, but we can’t; this situation is so politically charged, any wrong move could spark Magnussen or Moriarty into anger and they could invade before Mycroft has a chance to build his defence.” Lestrade says.

“But you’ve told him already, you must have done.” Will says. “You were at the dinner with Magnussen, when he told me his plans to take the Holmes’s throne.”

“Yes, I did.” Lestrade nods. “Mycroft reported back to me that he is going to start mustering the troops, whatever he has, but he’ll have to be careful; if Magnussen’s informants catch on to what he is doing, he’ll know that Mycroft has an informant of his own.”

“So, when can we get Will out of here?” John asks. ‘We’. Will schools his face into impassivity, no matter how warm he feels inside.

“Once we have a firmer idea of what Mycroft wants us to do.” Lestrade reassures him. “I have contacts throughout the land, though, so we have options, I promise you that.”

He smiles at Will, eyes flickering up and down his body, as if he is trying to make himself believe what he is seeing. “It’s been so long, Sherlock. Can I…?”

He moves forward, and Will instantly tenses. Lestrade raises his hands, as a sign of ease, and stupidly, Will realises the man only wants to hug him. He nods, and Lestrade gathers him up in a bone crushing hug, his hand cupping the back of Will’s neck. Will tries not to squirm.

“I’m so sorry.” Lestrade whispers into his ear. “I swear to you I will get you out of here and back to where no one will hurt you.”

Will nods, although the man cannot really see it. When Lestrade finally lets him go, he pretends not to see the tears glistening in the man’s eyes. John, he sees, has turned his back, giving them a bit of privacy.

“I think I’ll just…” John says, shuffling from foot to foot. “I’ll just go and…. yeah.”

John disappears into the ante chamber, the door clicking shut behind him. Will rolls his eyes at the man’s poor attempt at making an excuse, but a fond smile plays at his lips.

“Quite the diamond in the rough, that man.” Lestrade observes. “I’m glad he came along when he did.”

“Yeah.” Will says. “Me too.”

He can feel Lestrade watching him again as he moves to a chair by the fireplace and sits down in it, letting out a sigh. He can almost feel the words the other man is trying to speak like a presence in the air, and he sincerely hopes it is nothing more to do with what Moriarty wants of him. Finally, Lestrade gets the words out.

“A lot of people thought you were dead…. Forgive me, but your father seemed to have given up before he even started hoping you were still alive. Your mother, she has never lost her faith in you, but your father….” Lestrade shakes his head, and Will can see that he is angry by the furrowing of his brow and the downturn of his mouth. “He wanted to give you only a simple grave, a small marble marker, but your mother insisted that if they _had_ to give you a grave, that it be a splendid thing. And it really is. It’s a beautiful marble structure, looking out over your favourite spot, the Reichenbach Falls.”

“Yes, that I do remember. Now.” Will says. He remembers loving that view, and it seems appropriate to him, that a monument to him should be placed there, no matter how strange that seems. “What is Mycroft like? His character?”

“Well,” Lestrade says, sitting down in the chair next to Will’s. “A lot of people call him the ‘Iceman’, owing to his putting logical reasoning before emotion. But, once you get to know him, he does have his soft spots. You’re one of them. Your disappearance affected him more than most saw. He’s been doing all he can since you disappeared to rally forces to look for you. As he got older it was easier for him to do so, but our forces have been so depleted for so long… What he lacks in men he makes up for in skill. Mycroft is a born leader. But I’m all he really had left, in the search for you. Good thing I was successful, eh?”

“How long have you been looking for me?”

“Technically, ever since you disappeared, on and off. But since Mycroft assumed the regency it’s been a full-time mission for me. Months I have spent undercover. I worked in the slave sales for a time, lord….” Greg trails off, eyes distant, seeing things that Will cannot.

Will swallows. “You did that all for me? For Sherlock?”

Greg nods. “Aye. And it was worth it. Every minute. Because I’ve found you now.” He smiles fondly at Will, who does not know what to say. He has never had someone pleased to see him, not truthfully, not like Moriarty was, as Will could be used as a pawn in his game. No, Lestrade has selflessly given up his own life, to find Will. That he would do that speaks volumes of the amount of loyalty he has, both to Mycroft Holmes, and to his family. If the Holmes’ can rely on men like Gregory Lestrade…. Then maybe being Sherlock Holmes would not be that bad after all.                                                                           

* * *

 

It feels as if the days following Lestrade’s reveal should somehow be different from those that preceded it, but in fact life continues just as it had, except for one change which helps Will immensely when he is in Magnussen’s presence.

Along with John’s technique, he is able to divert his attention from Magnussen’s unwanted attention and channel it into trying to wring from the man any information that may prove useful to Mycroft. With every opportunity he gets, he prompts the man to reveal to him exactly how many men he has, what type of weaponry they’ll carry, and the details of how they will travel swiftly across the border and into Sherrinford land. Across dinner, when he is summoned, and during the nights he must spend with the man, he does his best to get whatever he can.

Sometimes, however, Magnussen’s presence is too overwhelming in its claustrophobic nature, and he spends a restless night fighting off the vines, locking them in the dungeon or shutting them under the floorboards, screwing them shut _tight._

As much as he can, though, he throws all his energy into solving the riddle.

He is so close, connections popping up like constellations in a pitch-black sky. Truth be told, he is not sure what exactly he is going to do once he has the answer, for he knows it is only a matter of time before someone, be it Moriarty or John or Lestrade, will notice his stalling.

In the end, the decision is made for him.                                                                                         

* * *

 

Greg is returning from his secret outpost, having checked for any correspondence from Mycroft, when he hears voices. By their hushed tones, it is obvious they are trying to keep this conversation secretive, but unfortunately for them, Greg knows about the secret passages that snake their way throughout the whole of Appledore Castle, and how they offer, at times, the perfect opportunity for listening in on something which should be private.

“He must be close?” A female voice says, low and lilting.

“Undoubtedly.” A male voice says, and Lestrade freezes when he recognises it as Moriarty. He shuffles closer to the crack in the wall, through which the voices stream. “And once we have that, Charles’s little army will have somewhere to totter off to and fight their little battle with their pathetic little swords and weapons whilst we….”

“Whilst we will control life and death.” The female purrs, no doubt the voice of Janine Moriarty.

Moriarty hums. “Precisely. And as the battle rages, we will join together the three jewels and unleash something much worse.”

Greg reels back from the wall, their words sinking into him like daggers. What do they mean, to control life and death?

“And your control, sister, is the most important thing. For when the third jewel is activated, it will be up to you to conduct the forces, controlling them completely, so that we do not destroy the entire being of this planet, unfortunately taking ourselves with it. The army of the dead is thought to be uncontrollable, but once it is summoned, I am sure of your talents; none of our ancestors have been as powerful as you.”

Greg’s heart beats to the fast pace of terror at the Moriarty’s’ words, a leaden weight sinking like a stone in his stomach. This is what Mycroft has always feared, what he has always hypothesised as the worst-case scenario. Whispers, rumours, which used to follow James and Janine when they resided at the Holmes’s court, like shadows, but were never fully realised and made into formed beings, are now coming to life in front of him.

“And whilst I am maintaining control of it all…” Janine says.

“Oh, the deaths of both Charles and Mycroft will be guaranteed. Once my immortal army has destroyed the enemy, they will turn on their own king. Siger Holmes, by this point, will undoubtedly be completely lost to the malady of the mind you have sunken him in. I was thinking maybe we keep him as a pet, some entertainment to us when the nights will surely drag, once our natural enemies have submitted to us.”

“I want the pick of the best palace.” Janine demands, sounding petulant. “Perhaps Musgrave… I did so like its towers and trellises…”

“Sister, with the people at our command, you can have a palace built to your own specifications.” Moriarty says, a laugh in his words.

“And you?” Janine asks. “What are you going to do, once we are gods? Oh, you should have a prison built for Sherlock’s pet…. Somewhere he can watch his little doctor friend suffer the pain of our power over and over infinitum.”

“Yes,” Moriarty says, “Once we are gods….”    

“Shit….” Greg mutters under his breath. This is far, far worse than the mustering of men, meeting on ground to conquer with weapons man-made and destructible. This is the workings of nature, conjured by those who know its secret, with malice in their hearts…. He needs to act fast.

He needs to get back to Sherlock.                                                                                         

* * *

 

“Will?” John asks, voice cutting through the comfortable silence which has settled between them in the past half an hour since returning from the library.

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering… now that you’re a free man, and circumstances have changed… why don’t you change your name?” John says.

Will looks up from his seated position, watching John as the other man settles into the chair next to him. “You mean go by what everyone else seems to call me, ‘Sherlock’?”

“Yeah.” John says, nodding. “I know you were…. disillusioned, at first, to being known as Sherlock Holmes, but… it feels like, to me, anyway, a way for you to move on from all that came before. Not that I’m saying the past eighteen years of your life are going to be forgotten just like that, of course not, but it might help, if you see what I mean?”

Will’s eyes drift to the fire as he thinks through John’s words. Yes, that does make sense, and if John were to have asked that of him about a week ago, he would have rebutted the man, refusing to go by that name, for at that time, it had flowed only from the tongues of Magnussen and Moriarty, was theirs to possess, but now…. Now, he has allies, in both Lestrade, who has referred to him by that name since their reunion, unable to break the habit, obviously, and John, who is now encouraging him in its usage. Lestrade and John have shown they will be loyal to him despite the circumstances, and if that name now rolls of their tongues, too, then it cannot be all bad.

Furthermore, he realises he has been reluctant to use it because he had believed it would not be his to claim, would confer on him the identity of someone he was not sure he wanted to be. It is the same reason he has not wanted to read his own biography, since John discovered it in the library. It felt like someone else’s identity.  If he uses the name from this point onward, at least it will be because he chose to, because it feels like it could be his, now. This feeling of control he has, over his circumstances, could hold up this new name, give promise to what he can shape himself to be. Instead of allowing Magnussen and Moriarty possession of it, he will take it for himself. It is freeing, the first freeing thing he has felt, possibly all his life.

‘Sherlock Holmes’ feels like less of a stranger to him now, less of a cloudy silhouette in a foggy mirror; he could reach out and touch a fingertip to the glass, and the reflection would do it back.

“Yes.” He says to John, and the other man’s face lights up. “Sherlock seems acceptable to me.”

“Alright then.” John nods. “Sherlock it is. Although, it might take me a little while to get used to, seeing as I’ve been calling you ‘Will’ for so long.”

“’Will’….” He, Sherlock, now, contemplates, “It doesn’t feel like _me_ anymore…”

“Well, whatever you need to do, to get the ground beneath your feet, you do it.” John says, settling back into his chair.

Sherlock watches him, details every crinkle and wrinkle on his face, each one speaking of John’s life journey, of all he has seen and been through. Sherlock’s resemble scars of faded tragedies. John must have a scar from his wound, surely, and Sherlock suddenly has the desire to see it, to study it, in order to understand John better.

 He suddenly realises John is looking his way, and that he must have been staring at the man for quite a while, and he looks down at his lap, cheeks burning red, not matter how much he compels them to stop.

“Sherlock.” John says, and Sherlock looks up at him again, but it seems John was just playing the word on his tongue, rolling it around his mouth, rather than actually addressing him. A slight smile plays at John’s lips.

They sit in silence for a little while more, the relaxed air settling comfortably around them. The light streaming in from the windows is beginning to fade, and Sherlock is just wondering where Lestrade has got to when John speaks again.

“You know,” John starts, clearing his throat. He shifts in his chair, and Sherlock can deduce he has something significant to say and braces himself. “When Greg can get you out of here…. I’m coming with you, right?”

Sherlock blinks. “You are?”

“Yeah, yes, of course, I am.” John affirms, nodding.

“’Of course’?” Sherlock asks. John’s support of him here, in his own home, he has accepted ever since the man pledged his loyalty to him and rejected the authority of his corrupted king but escaping to Sherrinford is another matter entirely.

John chuckles, a small frown marring his brow. “That’s if you’ll have me, of course. If Sherrinford breeds men like Greg then I think I might get on a bit better over there, but only if you want me to come with you?”

Sherlock swallows, trying to gain his composure, slide his face into impassivity even as his heart beats hard and fast at a staccato. “Yes, of course I do.” He replies, intentionally copying John’s earlier words. “If you’re willing to leave all you have here?”

“Wi-Sherlock,” John says, laughing at himself for his early mistake. “There is nothing here for me. I owe no more loyalty to Magnussen, and there must be a need for a physician somewhere in Sherrinford! There is nothing and nobody worth staying for.”

Sherlock licks his lips, before daring himself to say. “Nobody at all?”

“No.” John insists, shaking his head. “I’ve only ever had a connection with one person, but she was a…. fling, just someone to be with for lack of anything more meaningful. Nothing has come close to how I feel about….” John trails off, cheeks flushing red, shifting in his seat. Embarrassed. “Sorry, that was a bit too….”

Sherlock shakes his head, voice quiet and careful “No, it’s fine, I don’t….” He begins to say, but suddenly Lestrade is bursting through the door, cheeks flushed, breathing heavy, and the moment is gone.

“Greg!” John exclaims, jumping from his seat. “What’s wrong?”

Lestrade slams the door shut behind him, resting against it for a moment, catching his breath. Sherlock rises from his chair, too, deducing all he can about the man. Lestrade is obviously stressed, panicked, and his entire body tenses, preparing for what might threaten to topple his tentative control.

“I just overheard the Moriartys.” Greg begins. “And I fear they are preparing for more than even Magnussen knows.”

“What do you mean?” John asks, one hand gripping the back of the chair.

“I mean, I just overheard them talking about taking control over life and death. They’re going to do it, somehow, with some sort of jewel, they said. Sherlock, that must be what they’re having you look for, right?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but simply shrugs and closes it again.

“Yes, it must be.” Lestrade says. “It _must_ be, it all makes sense! They’re searching for this jewel, and it is going to allow them to raise an army of the dead.”

“ _What?”_ John says, aghast.

“Yeah,” Lestrade says, nodding. “Janine, apparently she can control it, so that once it rises, all their enemies will be nothing but bones.”

“Meaning they’re going to kill us all?” John says, the words leaving his mouth like acid.

“Including Magnussen.” Lestrade says.

Sherlock nods slightly. He knew it. Once Moriarty is out from under Magnussen’s control the man will mean nothing to him. “Moriarty, he told me being a king is pointless, that you are just a puppet; he’d rather be a god…” He says.

“Yes,” Lestrade says, pointing a finger his way. “That’s what they said, ‘when we are gods’!”

“Oh my lord….” John mutters, and his grip on the chair is bone white. “We’ve got to do something.”

“Sherlock, please, we’ve got to give them a fake location.” Lestrade says, taking a few steps towards Sherlock, crowding him. “Somewhere where the stone is untouchable, somewhere where the Moriartys won’t be able to unleash whatever supernatural force they want to topple the entire world!”

“I-” Sherlock starts, but the sharp, acidic feel of anxiety begins to run through his veins. He cannot possibly give them a false location without it in some way being discovered. Even is James Moriarty is to believe him, it is not possible that Janine Moriarty will not see through his lies. And if that is the case, that means he would have failed in his mission to protect John and it would have all been for nothing….

“Sherlock, please!” Lestrade pleads again. “You’ve got to be close to cracking it! We give them a fake location, somewhere we can direct Mycroft to be ready, and we can send people to fetch this jewel at its real location!”

“No!” Sherlock protests. “We don’t want Moriarty catching wind that we’ve told him a lie! The less people who know about it the better!”

Lestrade nods. “Yes. You’re right. That does make more sense. But then what do we do with it, we can’t just leave it unattended.”

“We get it.” Sherlock says. “When we get out of here, we go and get it.”

Lestrade sucks in a sharp breath, which when he exhales comes out as a stressed and frustrated sigh. “I’m not sure. My orders from Mycroft are to get you to safety.”

Sherlock cannot contain the scoff that leaves his mouth. “I’ve survived eighteen years of slavery, I’m not sure what Mycroft thinks he can protect me from now.”

Lestrade purses his lips, conflicted. John offers his suggestion. “We have a bit of time, yes? To come to a decision?”

Lestrade shrugs. “I will write to Mycroft with what I have heard from the Moriartys, I will tell him what you suggest, Sherlock, but…we shall see.”

Sherlock sighs and nods. To him, it makes perfect sense that they should go after the jewel; why let more people in on the secret if it is delicate and potentially world-destroying? But, he supposes, grudgingly, Mycroft is regent…

“But one thing is clear,” Lestrade says, “We need to give Moriarty a fake location…”

“It’s not as easy as that.” Sherlock replies, shaking his head.

“Why?” Lestrade demands, crossing his arms, the movement defensive and a little indignant. Sherlock averts his eyes, the posture reminding him of many a slave owner, ready to strike if Sherlock ever dared to try anything. It puts him right on edge, pushing him ever so slightly off his seat of surety.

He glances John’s way just slightly, sees the man shift on his feet, edging towards him, offering his support. “Sherlock?”

“Sherlock, I know this must be hard, I know that… disobeying someone so dangerous, going against them, isn’t easy, but we must do this. Do you understand?” Lestrade keeps pushing, and Sherlock wants to protest to Lestrade that it is not like that, that Moriarty does not see him as many do, a submissive slave, and has in fact been offering him up competition and threats since first arriving at Appledore, but the man is still talking, he realises, pushing him and demanding of him, and John is beginning to get involved, protecting him, but all he can focus on is the threat over John’s head, and how spectacularly wrong it could go…

“Just let me think!” Will shouts, silencing Lestrade, finally. The man is closer than ever now, crowding his personal space, and it is _too much_. Sherlock pushes past him, and John, who is holding a hand out in reassurance, and bolts from the room, flinging the door open and leaving it swinging behind him.

He just needs space to _think!_                                                                                    

* * *

 

John makes to go after Sherlock, unhinged by the panicked look on the other man’s face, but Lestrade puts a hand out to stop him.

“Give him some time. Mycroft is the same; thinking time is what he needs.” Lestrade says.

“Oh, and you’re the expert on him, are you?” John spits. “You shouldn’t have pushed him like that, crowding him. You know what he’s been through, and he’s been doing really well, but that wasn’t going to help anyone.”

Lestrade looks to the floor, ashamed. “You’re right,” He sighs, “I was out of line. But John, I cannot stress enough how serious this is.”

“No, I know.” John says. “But there is no reason to treat him as you did.”

He turns on his heel, striding off to the ante chamber. No matter how cross he is with Lestrade at this moment for crossing the line, the man might be right, it might be wise to give Sherlock some space.

It is tough, to see someone he- John swallows, sitting down on the small bed, the wood creaking under him, putting his head in his hands- seeing someone he _cares_ about so much, be unnerved like that, but he believes he more than anyone has seen the daily struggles Sherlock goes through, and as much as it pains him to see someone so brilliant be derailed like that, he understands the long and winding path down which Sherlock has walked, and realises how far he has come since then.

The man just needs some breathing space, and from the frantic beating of his own heart and the aching desire to comfort the man going far beyond what he has ever felt for a friend, apparently he does, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed to change what Sherlock is referred to as some time, I thought this chapter would be appropriate enough! 
> 
> Thank for reading, kudos and comments greatly appreciated.
> 
> See you on Monday for Chapter 15... Things are really going to start to pop off....


	15. A Deadly Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: one scenes contains an attempt at non-con touching. I will put double lines at the beginning and the end of the scene if you would like to skip. 
> 
> Thank you for the continued support. Enjoy this chapter.

Sherlock heads straight for the library, finding comfort in the company of knowledge shared. The smell of leather-bound books has become familiar and welcoming as he heads for their table, his work sheets still spread out all over the desk in an organised mess.

He slumps down in his seat, the impact jolting his bones, and he suddenly feels very fragile, skin brittle. He sighs, taking just a moment to allow himself to feel his irritation, frustration, and fear. It is a cacophony within his mind, and it takes a lot of strength to pull himself out of it; when he comes to, he is breathing heavily, chest heaving.

“Stop it, just stop it.” He mutters to himself under his breath, bringing his work closer to him, giving himself something to focus on. He supposes, wryly, that it is a good thing he has spent many days at a time, over the years, in near darkness, as he has gained a knack for seeing in the dark. The bookcases loom over him, made eerier by the shadows, but the table is lit warmly by candlelight, a relief from the gathering darkness outside of the windows. He turns his attention to the papers in front of him, finding calm in the indelible words on the paper.

It is the work of merely an hour before he has solved it, the culmination of days’ work coming as rather an anti-climax. He stands up, answer in mind, and approaches the large map, searching out for the jewel’s hiding place: Saint Bartholomew’s Plain. Or rather, the jewel was originally hidden in a cathedral which had stood on the site, a building dedicated to Saint Bartholomew, at the high altar. The cathedral had been destroyed in a flood, the jewel thought to have been buried in the rubble, according to his research. A small smile comes to this face at the thought of Moriarty searching a barren land for the remains of what once would have been an obvious marker of the jewel’s location. No doubt Moriarty will be displeased with the answer; any delay to their reign of supremacy over life and death will not be welcomed with open arms. Sherlock moves back to the desk, plonking himself back down in his chair.

He understands Lestrade’s reasoning and were there not a threat hanging over John’s head like a dark cloud he would certainly agree with the man, but it is too much of a risk for him to take. He wonders what the him of a few weeks ago would think of his reasoning now; ‘why risk everything for the sake of one man’, he no doubt would say, ‘why allow yourself to succumb to affection and caring, when it will not help you to survive?’ He feels indignant at this imaginary self, scoffing that caring is not a disadvantage, even though, at the same time it is, because there must be something more he can do, some way to work around what Moriarty wants of him. ‘Will’ would have no idea of the opportunities that Sherlock now has; the world is so much more complicated that having and not having. And besides, John has saved him in more ways than he could have possibly imagined, allowed him to feel without neglecting his system of coping with his emotions, his mind palace.

Sherlock sighs, leaning over the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his biography, calling to him, tempting him. He considers it for a moment, before dragging it towards him. He flips to the contents page, ignoring all other titles until he sees ‘disappearance and apparent death’. He flips to that page, the scent of old musty book rising up as he does. He smooths his hand over the open pages and focuses on the text.

Something strikes him as familiar.

That handwriting, he has seen it before. In fact, it is _incredibly_ familiar, and yet so out of place, like seeing Warton or Smith here, in this grand homage to knowledge. He fumbles for the piece of paper with the riddle written on it, now creased and crinkled, and smooths it out next to the open page of his biography.

Yes. He was right. This is the same handwriting. Meaning, Ronan Dartoyle must have been the man to copy out this riddle, the man employed by Moriarty to find what he was looking for. That is, of course, if this book is an original copy, and he begins to flick back through the book to the front page, when the movement causes the riddle to flutter upwards, and float towards one of the lit candles. A gentle caress of flame to parchment and the riddle is aflame, the corner being eaten away and turned to ash.

“Damn!” Sherlock exclaims, standing up and reaching for it, blowing on it to extinguish the flame before wafting it through the air. As he does so, the paper catches the light of the other lit candles, and something on it catches his eye. He pauses, frowning, before repeating the action, much slower this time. Yes, there is something hidden, written on the paper.

Keeping it still, he holds it in front of the flames. Written, on the bottom corner, thankfully not eaten away by the flames, are a string of numbers, and under them are the letters ‘S’ and ‘H’. Sherlock Holmes? Was this meant for him? What the numbers mean, he has no idea, but that handwriting, it is exactly the same. This is the work of Ronan Dartoyle. What is the man doing?

Grabbing a quill and dipping it hastily into the inkpot, spilling some of it over the side, he notes down the numbers on a fresh piece of parchment. Then, he flips to the front of his biography, to confirm that yes, this is an original copy, written in the hand of the author himself. So, this man must have known that Sherlock, because presumably that is what the ‘SH’ stands for, would be the one to decipher this code, and then would _accidently_ reveal these hidden numbers. This all seems far-fetched and coincidental to him. How would Dartoyle know? The first thing to do, he supposes, is to see whether these numbers are actually of any significance.

He runs through, at fast speed, all possibilities as to what these numbers could be. Possibilities flow through him like a flood, but then the most obvious strikes him like a lightning bolt. _Of course._ Coordinates.

He strides over to the map, eyes flickering back and forth between the parchment and the plan of the land. Delicate lines, almost like cobwebs, cloak the map, marking out coordinates. Finger moving along the lines, Sherlock matches up the coordinates Dartoyle left with him, with those marked on the map, and when his fingers stops at the correct place, he freezes.

Underneath his pad, is a simplistic drawing of what must be an imposing structure. It is labelled ‘The Tomb’, and Sherlock darts back to his biography, breathing erratic, almost panting, picking the book up and slamming it down on top of the map, smoothing out the pages about his death.

Eyes darting across the page, words processing at a colossal speed, he reads through the chapter, looking for any reference to a tomb. Finally, he finds it, a description of the tomb, and it is even accompanied by an illustration. The simplicity of it is almost laughable.

A small yet intricate image graces the bottom corner at the end of the chapter. Dark marble, done in watercolour, spirals towards the sky, both supporting and a canopy to the rectangular stone tomb. The artist has traced in fine, silvery paint, detail in the stone, carvings gothic and impressive. The tomb itself seems shadowed by all this finery, so that Sherlock can only make out black smudges, which must stand in for the words carved into the tomb, and a blue detailing inset in the stone just before the inscription. Sherlock leans closer, something about the blue detailing fascinating.

Skimming the text, Sherlock finds further reference to this blue detail, and a small, disbelieving laugh leaves his throat. Dartoyle has named it the ‘Sherlock Jewel’, although hints that its origins stretch far back, back to when the Moriartys ruled Appledore, the jewel’s supposed homeland.

Dartoyle, Sherlock can surmise from what the man has written and the secret message left seemingly for him, is clever, clever enough to leave a hint to those searching for the truth, without giving the game away to any other players. And here he has served an opportunity up to Sherlock on a gold-plated platter.

What Dartolye is pointing to seems as clear as day to him, a sunny sky unlike any he has seen since arriving at Appledore. And this feeling inside himself, a confidence in what he has discovered, is unlike anything he has felt here at Appledore, or at all. He is sure of what Dartoyle is hinting at, that the jewel has been moved, somehow, to his tomb, and that Moriarty does not know about this.

This is all speculation, with no cold hard facts except for all that Dartoyle has told him, but Sherlock realises now, the risks one has to take in a game like this; Moriarty had risked Magnussen’s trust in him, by bringing a boy enslaved, who bore resemblance to a lost prince. Sherlock must take this gamble, similarly, on threads of what might be, for Moriarty had taken the threads of him and sewn together someone made from memory and rumour, not knowing as he had, that the needle and thread have gotten away from him, and now Sherlock weaves his own story.

And he feels, in this moment, as though he might be able to weave Moriarty’s, too.

Only, how he might get away with this, without revealing it all to Janine, who might rip holes in his cloth, he does not know. For Lestrade’s idea had been a good one, and now it has more solid ground, but he cannot pass her test whilst he lives and breathes. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of that illustration of his tomb once again, and the candles around him seem to glow brighter as his brain illuminates with an idea which should be preposterous, but seems, in the circumstances, to make absolute sense.                                                                                            

* * *

 

“John! John! Wake up John!” A voice calls, and John jerks up on the rickety old bed in the ante-chamber, years in the army allowing him to wake up in an instant.

“Wha-What?” He splutters, getting his bearings. Through bleary eyes he recognises Sherlock, standing over him with bright, glassy eyes. “Wi-Sherlock, what is it? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, John, more than fine!” The other man exclaims, pulling on John’s arm to get the other man to sit up properly. When John does, Sherlock sits down heavily on the bed next to him, the frame creaking in a very ominous way, but luckily it does not break.

“What time is it?” John asks, running a hand through his hair.

“Barely past midnight; I’ve been in the library.” Sherlock says, and this is when John notices the book in his hand: Sherlock’s biography.

“What are you doing with that?” John asks, gesturing to the book.

“I’ve solved the riddle, John, I know where the jewel is!”

“What jewel?”

“The one Moriarty is after!

“So Greg’s hypothesis was correct, then? It is a jewel Moriarty is after?”

“Yes, Moriarty told me when he first propositioned me to solve it.”

“Wait, hang on, why didn’t you tell Greg, then?” John asks, genuinely confused. Why, for that matter, had Sherlock not told _him?_

“It was too dangerous.” Sherlock answers. “I didn’t want him telling Mycroft, in case Mycroft were to send men to fetch it, before I could agree with Lestrade to keep this between us.”

“I see.” John says, although he cannot shake the sharp tinge of hurt he feels, that Sherlock had not told him. He shakes himself, pocketing that feeling away for later.

“But I’ve solved it John, and I’ve found a way for us to outsmart Moriarty!” Sherlock says, excited.

“How?”

“I’m going to die.”                                                                                       

* * *

 

John paces, as Sherlock fills Lestrade in on all he has learnt. To say John had downplayed his concern when Sherlock had told him his plan would be an understatement. An acidic like sickness had risen in his throat since Sherlock first told him and has remained lodged there ever since. He had not wanted to dampen the other man’s excitement, though, and as loathe as he is to admit it, Sherlock’s plan is brilliant. But he can see from Lestrade’s face that the same acidic mass has risen in the other man’s throat, also.

“Is it absolutely necessary you go to this author?” Lestrade asks, biting the inside of his cheek.

Sherlock nods. “I need to confirm what I believe him to have told me. Plus, there might be more he can tell us.”

“Sorry for critiquing you but it does seem a bit far-fetched, that a secret clue, hidden by this man, should provide the real hiding place for this jewel.” Greg says, hands on his hips.

“Lestrade, you’ve seen my tomb, yes?” Sherlock asks, and Greg nods. “Then you must have seen the jewel embedded in it? The blue one?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s incredible, it almost seems to radiate with light.” Greg says.

“And you’ve seen the jewel around Moriarty’s neck, yes? The green one?” When Greg nods again, Sherlock continues, “And does that not glow in the same way? As if it seems to radiate with something more than just the stone it is made from?”

Greg blinks, thinking. After a short while, he nods tentatively. “Now you say it…. yeah, there are some similarities.”

Sherlock nods, “I don’t believe Dartoyle is wrong, but I need to check with him. Don’t you see? He might have more to tell us; he looks to be on our side.”

‘Our side.’ The phrase flashes through Sherlock’s mind. The lines have been drawn in the sand, Moriarty has forced his hand. The opportunities the man has given him to improve his intellect have ensured Sherlock go against him, and a part of him wonders if that is what Moriarty has wanted all along; in allowing Sherlock to keep John by his side and providing him with free reign in the library: an equal opponent.

Greg sighs, but finally he relents, nodding. “Alright. Dartoyle, you said?”

Sherlock nods, and Greg reaches under his breastplate and into his doublet, rummaging around until he pulls out a small but thick book, tattered and battered. He flicks through it, going to the back pages, eyes scanning the pages rapidly. He hums as he comes across what he is looking for, his forefinger tapping the back of the book. “He lives in a small village called Bulgravia, not far from here, maybe half a day’s ride.” He looks up to see John and Sherlock both staring at the book in his hand. “Oh. This is a record I’ve kept of anything and everything, since I started looking for you. I’ve got to write very small to fit it all in, but it comes in handy in situations like these.”

John nods, impressed, and Sherlock is equally affected; seeing the care and attention Lestrade has taken every step of way in finding him, he feels slightly uncomfortable; this man’s entire life has been consumed by his hunt, by him, _Sherlock._ Sherlock wonders if Lestrade has a family, or someone who cares about him, back in Sherrinford, and how they feel about how he has dedicated his life to a man who, up until recently, was no more than a shadow.

“How about I go?” Lestrade suggests.

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. “It needs to be me; his message was directed to me, and I need to know why, and how. Look, we need to get out of here anyway, and Magnussen’s forces will be leaving soon for Sherrinford anyway. Why not get out of here before we’re stuck with them, heading off to a battlefield. We get a head start, check with Dartoyle the location of the jewel, and then make our way to my tomb.”

“Bit of a risk, isn’t it? Sending him where it used to be and, I’m sorry to say this but there’s no strong evidence otherwise, might still be?” Lestrade says.

Sherlock nods. “It is a gamble, but I believe Dartoyle is correct. Furthermore, even if the jewel is still at the plain, the land, it’s so exhaustive and barren, it may allow Mycroft’s army to get the better of Magnussen before the Moriarty’s even locate it.”

Lestrade nods, and John, similarly, looks impressed, and a thrill of electric victory runs through Sherlock, to think he put that look on John’s face. This feeling, it is exhilarating!

Lestrade soon retaliates with another critique, however. “And you’re sure you need to fake your death? I mean, how do you even begin to go about doing such a thing without actually putting yourself in mortal danger?”

“John will find a way.” Sherlock says, adamant, and John rubs the back of his neck, delighted by the trust put in him, but stressed nonetheless. “It’s the only way to fool Moriarty and Magnussen. I’ve died before and I can do it again. If I die before I can give him the location, they’ll be no way for him to check I’m not lying.” At John and Lestrade’s confused expressions, he continues, “Moriarty warned me that Janine would have a scour around in my head after my answer was given, to see if I was lying, and if I was then….” His breath hitches, the words going unspoken. ‘ _Then they would have hurt you, John.’_

“Then what?” John asks, cheek twitching.

Sherlock sniffs, “Well, then it wouldn’t have been good for anyone.”

“So, you leave the answer written down for them, and they go with that?” Greg asks.

Sherlock nods. “Yes. All my workings are there, and they all point to Saint Bartholomew’s Plain as the place; it’s fool proof.”

Lestrade sighs once again, and John can almost imagine the heavy weight around his neck, as he gets pulled further into this dangerous and yet absolutely brilliant plan. His head shoots up suddenly, however, as he seems to remember something. “You know what, this could actually work.”

“Yes. That’s what I’ve been saying.” Sherlock deadpans.

“Yes, no. Look, the beliefs Magnussen follows, I’ve learnt a lot about them, being here, gossip spreads like jam in a place like this, and obviously his word is gospel, and there’s a certain ancient belief that once a body has been laid in the royal chapel preceding burial, then no person not enrolled in the holy order may look upon it, not until the funeral.”

“So we get your ‘body’ down there, where Magnussen and Moriarty cannot see, and we make our escape. Brilliant!” John exclaims, hardly able to contain himself, it feels like the puzzle pieces are slotting into place so. Sherlock and Lestrade are both looking at him, Lestrade in surprise and Sherlock in bewilderment, and John coughs, shifting on his feet. “Sorry.”

“And I don’t think there will be time for them to stick around for a funeral.” Sherlock murmurs. “They leave for Sherrinford in a few days, the army is almost ready.”

“Exactly what I was going to say.” Lestrade says, and then he smiles. “But what is even better is there are secret passages in the castle, running through it like veins. These connect to underground tunnels in the citadel, which emerge just outside the city walls; normally they’re used for soldiers to sneak underground and surprise the enemy if there should be an attack on the castle, but we…”

“Can use them as our escape, without Magnussen and Moriarty knowing.” Sherlock says, nodding.

“Oh my god this actually might work….” John murmurs, sitting down in the chair by Sherlock.

“From there, we head for your author in Bulgravia. If I, in some way, am unable to make it with you, I have a contact I will send there anyway to receive you, who can escort you. We’d have to go through backwater towns, not taking the most direct route, but it is imperative we keep you as hidden as we can; whilst our ruse might work for a while, circumstances may change and Moriarty and Magnussen could get rumour that you’re still alive.”

Sherlock nods. “Whatever it takes.”

“Give me two days.” Lestrade says. “To write to my contacts, to Mycroft, to put everything in place. You two focus on the faking your death part of all this.”

Sherlock and John nod, and the man tucks his notebook back into his doublet, striding from the room eagerly, a man on a mission. Just as he reaches the door, however, he turns, and looks back to Sherlock.

“Sherlock? I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have pushed you, that was inconsiderate and uncalled for… my search has been so long, and my country is so precious to me, I may have let it all get to be too much.”

Sherlock nods, accepting his apology, and Lestrade ducks his head for a moment before he looks back up at them, smiling.  “Believe me, I’m as keen to get out of here as you are! The accommodation is awful, and the other men are terrible! There’s one, Anderson, I think his name is, works for Moriarty, a nasty piece of work.” Greg says, shaking his head. Sherlock and John share a look, both smirking, as Lestrade leaves the room, doors clicking shut behind him.

John sighs, turning back to Sherlock, and Sherlock can feel the weight of his gaze upon him. John’s mouth opens and closes a few times, obviously trying to find the words to say. “This is brilliant, this plan, you know? And how you worked all this out…” John shakes his head, letting out a long breath.

“But…” Sherlock prompts, feeling John’s reservations sitting heavily in the air.

“Just….” John leans back in his chair, rubbing his chin. “The only way I can think of, so far, to convince them of your apparent decease is poison. I give you a small dose of poison, which will lower your heart rate and breathing, making them undetectable. An antidote will reverse the effects, but my concern is if there are any complications; something goes wrong and you actually _do_ die.”

“That’s a risk we’re going to have to take.” Sherlock replies. “The bigger risk is Janine and Moriarty finding out the location of the final jewel, which they will if I’m around to give them that answer in person.”

John shakes his head, but from the drooping of his shoulders Sherlock can see he is defeated. “This goes against all the ethical codes of being a physician!”

“At this point, is anything ethical?” Sherlock counters, and John sighs, running a hand over his eyes.

There is a pregnant silence between them, and Sherlock bites his lip, feeling uncomfortable. He is asking a lot of John, to essentially take a life instead of saving one, and seeing John’s reaction, it gives him a moment of pause. But the thought that this plan could get them out of here, finally out of the clutches of Magnussen and Moriarty, drives him to want to do it, with an impatience which sends fire through his veins. And if they are successful, _when_ they are successful, John will feel this rush of pure excitement, too, and it will not matter.

There is one thing, however, that chips away at his certainty just a little. “Try and make it look natural, I don’t want them blaming you.”

John nods, humming quietly. John, in this situation, is still at risk, for as Sherlock’s physician he should not have allowed the man to ‘die’, but the risk is less than the one that could be manufactured from the threat already above his head; Sherlock and John will be long gone, hopefully, by the time Moriarty realises they’ve played him.

                                                                                     

* * *

* * *

 

It is the night before the day on which Sherlock intends to ‘die’, and he is undergoing his final compulsory night with Magnussen. Of course, the time itself is not any more pleasant than it has been previously, but there is a sense of anticipation crawling under his skin; after tonight, he will never have to go through this again. It makes him braver, when Magnussen tries to force his hand further down Sherlock’s abdomen, to think that the man will not be able to touch him again, and he grabs the hand in his own, forcing it away from his body and up towards his face.

“Oh, come, come.” Magnussen says, voice soft but unpleasant like soggy bread.

It is time for Sherlock to put any and all acting skills he has into play, now, and he coughs weakly in their adjoined hands. Magnussen makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat.

“Not getting sick, are you?”

Sherlock coughs again, pretending to catch his breath afterwards. “No.”

“You’d better not be, my dear, for we have a long journey ahead, and I want you to enjoy every moment.” Magnussen purrs, releasing his hands from Sherlock’s and placing it on the younger man’s lower back.

“I don’t know how I’d do that, knowing we’re marching to a battle in which you intend to kill my family.”

Magnussen chuckles. “Oh, forget that family; you’re part of my family, now. They abandoned you, Sherlock, your father never properly searching for you… your father is a man without morals, deciding it was better to strengthen his army than to look for his youngest son. But I am not the same, I see your value, and when James first told me he thought he’d found you…. I was so excited.” His hand begins to trail down Sherlock’s body, and Sherlock coughs again, shifting his body a little further away from Magnussen’s touch. “I will treasure you for all you are worth, and once I sit on the Sherrinford throne, I will have you properly. You belong to me.”

‘ _No_ ’, Sherlock thinks, ‘ _Who you think ‘Sherlock Holmes’ is belongs to you, but I belong to myself. That name is mine now.’_

“You will never have me.” He replies coldly, and Magnussen laughs patronisingly, but Sherlock smiles, knowing the other man cannot see his face. Despite Magnussen’s imperiousness, the man is merely a façade of an omnipotent king; he has no idea that in the time Sherlock has spent under his roof, the other man has grown stronger from the support of those around him, allowed him by Magnussen, overlooked by his pompousness.                                                                                   

* * *

* * *

 

“Alright. John, here’s your map of the underground passages,” Lestrade says, passing a folded piece of paper to John, who pockets it, nodding his thanks. “your workings are all over here, Sherlock; we will direct Moriarty to them as soon as he asks.”

Sherlock nods, taking a deep breath. He glances to the window, seeing the setting sun behind the glass. He tries not to think on the fact this might be last time he sees sunlight. Weeks ago, in the depths of his life from before, with no way out, he would not have been bothered by the thought of dying. Now, however, there is much more to live for, in fact, to be alive for, for he was not living before, just existing, but now he has two allies at his side and the first chance for real freedom.

“Now, as soon as Magnussen and Moriarty have seen your body, if they do not leave to immediately muster the army, as we think they will, I will do my best to enforce the removal of your body to the chapel. John, once they’ve gone, you need to get out as soon as you can, before you are found culpable-”

“Yeah, I’ve got it Greg.” John says from the ante chamber. Lestrade had discovered, from the underground maps, there is a passage leading from the ante chamber into the central tunnels, and John has been throwing bags packed with their belongings down there for the last half an hour.

“Then, I will take your body down to the chapel, Sherlock, administer the antidote, and we will meet John outside the town walls.”

“Greg, I think we know what to do.” John says, coming back into the room, smiling patiently.

“Ah,” Lestrade says, scratching the back of his neck. “Right. Yes. Sorry, must be the nerves.”

“Here,” John says, handing Lestrade a small vial of clear liquid. “This is your antidote. I also have one, just in case.”

“Cheers.” Lestrade says, carefully smuggling it away in his doublet.

“And Sherlock,” John says, his voice sounding a lot shakier. He holds up a vial of liquid, similar to the antidote, except that the liquid is a pale blue, almost turquoise colour. There is something unnatural about it, as if its colour is the first warning this substance should not be consumed. “This is the poison. I’ve watered it down, so you need to take all of this, but from the time you take this, we will have half an hour to administer the antidote, otherwise…” John trails off, shrugging. Sherlock and Lestrade know exactly what he was going to say.

“Yes.” Sherlock says, taking the vial from John. Their hands touch briefly, John’s fingers warm against Sherlock’s cold ones. John gives him a reassuring smile, but Sherlock can read the nerves and anxiety underneath it, the smile a mask. He gives John a reassuring smile back and hopes his is more convincing than John’s.

“Sherlock, here, take this.” Lestrade says, holding out the signet ring which bears the arms of the Holmes family. “Just in case you need it to identify yourself.”

Sherlock takes the signet ring, cradling it in his palm for a moment, feeling its reassuring weight. It’s a reminder, and almost a comfort, of why he is doing this, and what is riding on tonight being successful. He does not feel alone.

Sherlock passes the ring on to John for safekeeping and gives his thanks to Lestrade. The older man smiles sadly, trying to reign back the emotion behind his eyes. “Good luck, son.”

Lestrade takes a moment, ducking his head and sniffing loudly, before he raises his head once again and looks out at the fading light beyond the window.

“Well, Sherlock, if you’re ready?” Lestrade says. “The sun is setting, and if we’re to reach Dartoyle before sunrise, we must act fast.”

Sherlock nods, uncapping the vial. An earthy, revolting smell rises out of it, and he instinctively screws his nose up. Letting out a long breath, he looks first to Lestrade, and then to John. “Here goes.”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts, just before he goes to drink the vial. “Just… see you on the other side.”

Sherlock nods but John’s words are vague and ominous and a cold sweat breaks out across his forehead. ‘The other side’; whether John’s means on the other side of the city walls or on the other side of life Sherlock does not know, but before he has any more cause for hesitation, any more doubt, he lifts the vial to his mouth and drinks it all in one go.

* * *

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/182140858@N07/48103650161/in/dateposted-friend/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I re-posted the map at the end seeing as it is featured in this chapter. I am trying to do some more illustrations for this but I am not good at art so it might turn out a disaster. 
> 
> I have completely finished this story now and it comes to 25 chapters (including epilogue), so 10 more to go. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Kudos and comments would be really appreciated. 
> 
> See you on Friday for Chapter 16.


	16. Awry Plans

“Oh my…” John’s voice trails off and he darts forward to catch a now limp Sherlock, moving him so that he lies on his back on the bed. He carefully arranges Sherlock’s limbs whilst Lestrade snatches the now empty vial away and removes it to the ante chamber, hiding it. John carefully checks for Sherlock’s pulse, and were it not for his being a doctor he would think the man dead. Sherlock seems to be composed of snowflakes now, for he is pale and cold and frail all over. Although, like snowflakes, which in a large amount create something strong and beautiful, Sherlock perseveres, always, but seeing him laid out like this is horrifically disconcerting, and John has to bow his head for a moment, shaking images of his sister’s death away. He had wished, when she had first died, that he could see her body, although he knew it was impossible, that she had been consumed by the flames, lain out like Sherlock is now, just so he could see her face one last time. But seeing Sherlock like this, the convincing façade of death, he is struck down by the onslaught of memories of her demise, breath taken away, and he knows it is silly, that Sherlock is not actually dead, but even the possibility of him going the same way as his sister had leaves bile in the back of John’s throat.

“John?” Lestrade calls. “Come on, we’ve got to move fast!” The other man moves past him, throwing the double doors open and calling out down the corridor, his fast footsteps echoing off the walls as he runs down the corridors.

John sniffs, trying to compose himself, making sure Sherlock lies comfortably on the bed, sheets drawn away from his body. He can still hear Lestrade’s distant calls, and it helps to ground him, and he places his feet a little more firmly on the ground, letting out a shaky breath.

He supposes it might work to his benefit, to look shocked and haggard like he does, for not too long after Lestrade’s calls eventually die out do hurried footsteps approach, forming into James Moriarty as the man comes barrelling into the room, breathing heavily.

“ _No.”_ he whispers upon seeing Sherlock’s limp body. “No! No! NO!”

He approaches the bed, shoving John out of the way, leaning over Sherlock, smacking his cheeks. “No, come on! COME ON!” He picks up Sherlock’s limp wrist, and John’s breath catches in his throat. Moriarty feels for the pulse, and their ruse must work, for he soon drops the wrist again and lets out an almighty scream, far more monster than man, deranged by his frustration.

John fights not to step forward and stop Moriarty from grabbing Sherlock’s face, which the man does, stroking it possessively. “No, Sherlock! This wasn’t supposed to happen! You’re not supposed to just _die!_ HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN? You’re better than that!”

For a moment, John thinks the deranged man is speaking to him, but Moriarty’s attention is still very much on Sherlock. The man has picked Sherlock up, cradling his head against his shoulder. “This isn’t how this was meant to be! This wasn’t THE PLAN!”

Moriarty seems more than angry, he seems aggrieved, as well. John had thought Sherlock was only a means to an end for him, but the emotion Moriarty is expressing here goes beyond that, and were he not so blindsided himself he could almost imagine there were tears in Moriarty’s eyes.

At that moment, King Charles strides in, robes sweeping in behind him, like a raven coming to roost. He surveys the scene with piercing eyes, and it is the first time John sees him as anything other than imperious, as shock and disbelief seem to flood in over what he is seeing.

“James?” He spits, striding towards the bed. “What is-”

“He’s _dead.”_ Moriarty spits, laying Sherlock back down on the bed. “All our efforts and he’s dead!”

“How did this happen?” Magnussen turns to John, demanding. John digs his heels into the ground, trying to keep his voice as calm and professional as possible.

“His heart gave out, Your Majesty.” He explains. “I believe he was under too much stress in too poor a condition. He has been complaining of feeling ill for a few days; I’ve been giving him remedies, but they haven’t been doing much, and then suddenly just now he started gasping for breath, and then he just…” John trails off, gesturing in Sherlock’s direction.

“It could still work,” Moriarty is muttering under his breath, “It could still work….” He turns, eyes wild, to John, who sniffs, tilting his chin just that little bit higher, not backing down.

“The riddle.” He spits. “Did he solve it?”

“Yes, My Lord,” John replies, “His workings are over there on the desk. He only solved it this morning.”

Moriarty pushes past John and practically leaps over to the table. He grabs the copy of the riddle Sherlock had copied out freshly, following the partial destruction of the original. Sherlock had taken great care to imitate the original, however, and so he had painstakingly copied out the text in Dartoyle’s handwriting, and then added his original annotations over the top, including his final answer, Saint Bartholomew’s Plain, which is written in bold capitals at the bottom of the page. The other is packed with Sherlock’s belongings, ready for their meeting with Dartoyle. To the untrained eye, the copy would look identical to Dartyole’s own work, and it must fool Moriarty, for the man holds it up, eyes frantically reading over Sherlock’s work, finally settling on the answer. He breathes heavily, almost rasping, eyes alight with a newfound victory. he turns to Magnussen. “Charles! We have to leave immediately!”

Magnussen, meanwhile, has sat down on the edge of the bed, a hand lightly stroking Sherlock’s arm. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, and lets his lips linger there for a long while. “I would have had you.” He whispers. “You were _mine,_ I shouldn’t have waited, I should have taken you immediately, shown you how much I value you…” He moves from Sherlock’s forehead to his lips, taking him in one last, perverted kiss, before he stands, turning to face John, ignoring Moriarty’s demand.

“This is your fault, Doctor Watson.” He drawls, stepping into John’s space. “I trusted you, thought you the best man for the job, but you’ve let me down. Luckily for you, you have no one left, do you? No little family member out there, who I would take pleasure in having killed in the most imaginative of ways. I suppose your own grisly end will have to suffice.”

He steps away again, and John looks to Lestrade, who mouths at him to go, but John cannot leave, not until he knows that Moriarty and Magnussen will leave Sherlock alone. Moriarty implores Magnussen again. “We have to muster the troops now! There’s no point in waiting, we have the location, and we’ll need to attack swiftly, now that we’ve lost our secret weapon!”

Magnussen nods, “I will still take that bastard’s throne, even if his youngest cannot be there to see it.”

Moriarty begins to stride out of the room, calling, “I will summon the troops!”

Magnussen turns to look at Sherlock one last time, eyes regretful. After a moment they flick to John, and his tone is as cold as ice and as hard as a rock. “A slip up that will cost you your life, Doctor Watson.” He turns to Lestrade. “Arrest him.”

John’s eyes flick to Lestrade’s. If Lestrade ‘arrests’ him now, he will not be the guard to escort Sherlock to the chapel. And, no matter what deception they might be able to make in the flurried movement of the entire castle which must now be underway, neither of them would be by Sherlock’s side, which is, above all, imperative. Lestrade gives him and grim smile, before he turns back to Magnussen.

“No, Your Majesty.” Lestrade replies, looking straight ahead of him, eyes unwavering.

Magnussen turns to him, face screwed up in irritation. “What do you mean, ‘no’? Arrest him, now!” 

“I cannot do that, Your Majesty,” Lestrade says, removing his helmet, revealing his face. “For I do not serve you, I serve the true king of Sherrinford.”

“Traitor.” Magnussen spits, face drawn and pale, obviously shocked at this development. “TRAITOR! Who are you?”

“I am Gregory Lestrade, former Captain of the Royal Guard for King Siger Holmes and his royal highness the Regent Prince Mycroft Holmes. But my mission of the past months has been to find Sherlock Holmes, and take him back to his home, where he belongs.”

“But you’ve failed.” Magnussen spits. He gestures wildly to Sherlock’s body. “He’s dead! So what is the weak little family you owe allegiance to going to do against my stronger army, hmm? You’re weakened, all of you!” Magnussen turns, hurrying from the room. “GUARDS!” He shouts, voice echoing down the corridor. “GUARDS! TRAITORS! ARREST THEM! KILL THEM!”

Magnussen voice trails away as the man disappears into the depths of the castle, most likely off to prepare himself for an earlier departure than planned. This is what Lestrade, John and Sherlock had been hoping for; if Magnussen and Moriarty set off immediately, they will travel by night, which will make them slower. Other parts of the plan, however, have gone disastrously wrong.

“Shit.” Lestrade says. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Already they can hear hurried footsteps getting louder, running up the spiral staircase to Sherlock’s chamber. Lestrade begins to barricade the door, moving the table in front of it, the chairs, breaking down Sherlock’s chamber into a battlefield.

“John, get him awake, and get out!” Lestrade says, unsheathing his sword, prepared to fight.

John moves quickly, fumbling with the vial of antidote but getting it open. He holds Sherlock’s head up and drains the liquid into his mouth, making sure Sherlock does not choke. There is a terrifying moment where nothing happens, where Sherlock continues to lie limp, and the gathering footsteps ring loudly in John’s ears. But then, Sherlock begins to stir, eyes screwing shut before opening, blinking in the low light.

“Sherlock?” John whispers, tapping the man’s cheek gently. “Come on, wake up, we’ve got to go, it’s gone wrong.”

“What…” Sherlock murmurs, and John helps him to sit up, guiding his legs over the side of the bed. “What…What’s gone wrong?”

“Put simply, guards are right outside the door to arrest me and Greg for being traitors.” John says, helping a still woozy Sherlock up from the bed, pulling the other man’s arm around his shoulders, giving him some support.

“Both of you, GO!” Lestrade shouts as the double doors begin to rattle and bounce as the guards outside push against them. the barricade begins to move, the table legs making a horrible groaning sound against the floor.

“What about you?” John asks as he pulls Sherlock towards the ante chamber.

“I’ll do my best, but if I am not with you at the horses within fifteen minutes, you leave without me.” Lestrade orders, sword poised, he barely gives them a glance over his shoulder.

“But-” John says, but Lestrade interrupts. ‘But they’ll kill you!’, is what he means to say.

“GO!” Lestrade shouts, and John final relents, moving him and Sherlock out of the room, into the ante-chamber, and into the secret opening hidden behind a small cabinet in the room.

“Go on, climb through.” He says to Sherlock, following the other man into the cabinet, pulling the door behind him. Then, they are in the tunnels.

Light is low, and John fumbles with his map as Sherlock runs a hand over his eyes, doing his best to drag his newly acquired bag of possessions onto his back. It is filled mainly with clothing, but he has kept his biography, some hastily made notes on the Moriarty jewels, and the original work he did on the riddle, as well.

“Okay, come on.” John says, shouldering his own bag with only a minor irritation from his shoulder. He pauses before they get going, however, and gives Sherlock a look of concern, eyes darting over his form. “Are you alright? Feeling okay?”

“Yes.” Sherlock replies automatically, although he still looks a little weak and green around the gills. He sets off down the passageway, taking the narrow steps downward carefully. John follows on after him, praying to whatever deity is out there that Lestrade makes it out with them.                                                                                    

* * *

 

Sherlock is starting to get dizzy, from all the twists and turns they have taken in the narrow and cramped spaces. The after-effects of the poison are still making their way through his body, and he feels he could vomit at any moment, but he perseveres, and when they finally see a break in the darkness, an opening up ahead, he rushes towards it, sucking in the cool night air, breathing heavily. John bursts out soon after him, hands on his knees, catching his breath.

“Fifteen minutes, Greg said,” John gasps. “We wait fifteen minutes, and if he doesn’t join us…. We go.” He finishes firmly, although he looks back to passage, hopefully. They keep close to the city wall that towers above them, hidden by its looming presence. There is the general murmuring of human activity in the city, but none of the hurried rushing there must be in the castle at this moment, as Moriarty and Magnussen muster the troops. Just to the side of them, their horses wait patiently, ready for their riders. Packs are attached to their saddles, filled with food and drink to keep them going. Both also carry swords, for the men to defend themselves if needed. Sherlock approaches the one with white and brown markings, grabbing a water skin from the horses back. He strokes it nose, the horse dipping eagerly to receive his touch. It reminds him of Gladstone.

He takes small sips from the water skin, trying to get rid of his nausea. John steps forward, taking his pulse, looking into his eyes.

“You’re alright.” He says, looking relieved, and tired. Shocked, Sherlock deduces. John looks as if he has seen something terrible and cannot shake the image; Sherlock thinks he knows what it is, and takes a steadying breath.

“John….?” He asks, knowing the other man will understand his unsaid words. He understands, now, from John’s teachings, what it means to acknowledge feelings, how ignoring them does not help, sometimes. And in this situation, Sherlock concludes it is better John face them, than keep them inside. They cannot be distracted, now.

“Sorry, it was just… hard for me, to see you lying there, supposedly dead.” John explains, swallowing heavily. “It reminded me of my sister. And I thought…. At least, not seeing her body, I could always fool myself into thinking that maybe, she was out there somewhere. It’s strange, because in a way, you looked so peaceful, and I couldn’t help but feel angry that she never got that, that she died in agony. But I can’t decide what is better, seeing her body, knowing she’s dead, getting that last look of her lying peacefully in eternal rest, or never seeing a body, and having that last, _stupid,_ tendril of hope.”

Sherlock does not know what to say, except, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d react so harshly. I thought it necessary, to escape this way.”

John shakes his head. “No, it’s not your fault, Sherlock. It’s like I said to you, after your first night with Magnussen, it’s better to face your emotions head on. But, sometimes, they have a way of creeping up on you, when you least expect it, because healing isn’t as simple as that.” He takes a deep breath, sniffing. “But, you carry on. I’m not going to let this stop us, because we’re so much more than what’s happened to us in the past. It was just a…. moment, but it’s fine. I’ve dealt with it, we’re all good.” John nods, reassuring both himself and Sherlock.

Sherlock hesitates, glad they have this moment whilst they wait for Lestrade. He has had similar concerns, for whilst they are now free, have made their daring escape, he has worried about the long-lasting influence of Magnussen’s impression upon him. He has been catastrophising, late at night, when exhaustion sets in, that the vulnerability and weaknesses he has felt under Magnussen’s treatment might impact his ability to act decisively, old insecurities left over from his co-dependency of years of slavery crowding in with Magnussen’s treatment, leaving him weak in the knees. He has been so much better, so sure in his convictions, but that worry is always there, crawling under the floorboards in his mind palace.

But, in what seems to be the normal trend, John has swooped in, and eased his worries. Left him breathing a little easier. And what delights him the most, is John sharing with him how he is feeling. He likes it, feels like they are on equal ground. Never would ‘Will’ have thought he would have such a connection with another person.

Sherlock nods, and John gives him a small smile. In the time they have been talking, almost fifteen minutes must have past, and there is still no sign of Greg. John paces, hands on his hips, and Sherlock taps his thumb against his lip, knowing their chances are getting poorer as the seconds tick by. Suddenly, bells ring out from the city.

“Warning bells.” John mutters. They cannot risk leaving any later, now, and John does one last check in the tunnel, but he cannot hear nor see Lestrade. “Come on.” He says to Sherlock. “We need to go.”

Sherlock follows him to the horses, and John helps him up into his saddle on Gladstone, as he has nicknamed the horse. Sherlock tries to hide his embarrassment, but he is still too physically weak, muscles not quite strong enough, to do it himself. Not that John minds.

Once John has also got himself seated on his horse, he steers his horse around to face Sherlock, giving him a small nod. Sherlock spares one last thought for Lestrade, for all the sacrifices the man has made for him, for how, possibly, tonight he has made his last, before he nods back, and they set off, into the night.                                                                                         

* * *

 

Mary enjoys the quiet solitude that a river walk by the city walls offers her, and in the shadowy cloak of night, there is an anonymity to her actions which she enjoys, the thought that she does not have to be herself, here, that she can be anyone she wants. The cover of darkness is her stage to being more than she is: a killer.

She is in the deep depths of an imaginary world when she hears voices, low and serious. She stops in her tracks, listening carefully, covered by the shade of an oak tree. She grips the strap of her ever-present cross brow, slung across her back, poised for defence. She is just rounding the corner at the city walls, making her way back home, her shoddy shabby home, and the voices seem to be coming from there.

She cannot make out all of the conversation, just some select words, but one of the voices is incredibly familiar, and it gives her further pause for thought as she recognises John’s voice.

_What is John doing out here?_

She does not recognise the other voice, but then John says a name and the rumours that have been flying about the other troops in the armoury seem to turn from ridiculous ponderings to actual reality, for John seems to be talking to Sherlock Holmes.

Whatever it is they’re discussing, it seems to be deeply personal, and Mary can only assume John has made some strong connection to this Sherlock. It cannot be _the_ Sherlock, though, can it? Although…. They are to ride out the day after tomorrow, King Charles determined to finally claim the throne of Sherrinford as his own, and Mary had been wondering what had catalysed this life-long dream to finally be put into action. Well, Sherlock Holmes would certainly be a trump card to have, and the more she thinks about the situation, the more likely it seems.

So, why is Sherlock standing outside the city walls in deep conversation with John? John had told her, the last time she’d seen him, that he had a new job up at the castle, and the fact that he had moved into the castle’s residence is enough to tell Mary the job must have been important, or rather, to do with an important person. Sherlock? It seems likely. So it seems very strange that both should be along out here.

Suddenly the city bells begin to chime in warning, and Mary hears John say ‘come on’. She slinks further into the shadow of the tree as two riders on horses dash past her, whipping up the wind and throwing her hair into her face.

The warning bells, and John’s sudden dash off with Sherlock Holmes, a man who most likely should be up in the castle now, and is possibly the cause for the alarm bells ringing, tells Mary that something has not gone to plan, here. What does John think he’s doing? Running off with the lost prince of Sherrinford! She assumes Magnussen knows about this, and can knows exactly what horrible things the man will do to him if they are caught.

Mind made up, Mary breaks out into the clear light of the now gathered night, the moon’s waxen light illuminating the two riders as they disappear over the horizon. Clever; from here, they will not be seen from the castle.

Walking over to where John and Sherlock had been, she spots a horse stood there, waiting patiently for its rider. Another accomplice, perhaps? Well, too bad for them, Mary thinks, striding over to the horse, throwing herself into the saddle and taking hold of the reigns. Maybe she can stop John from making a fatal error before it is too late and be the bolster between him and the perilous wrath of King Charles Magnussen.                                                                                 

* * *

 

John’s head is spinning, eyes drooping. The landscape around them has rushed past, and John has not been able to tell the ground from the sky for a long while, it is so dark. It feels as if they are riding through one long, dark tunnel. Finally, though, gentle lights wink at them, encouraging them forward. Belgravia is ahead of them, and so is Dartoyle.

John hopes the man doesn’t mind being woken up in the early hours.

He glances beside him, to a weary but determined Sherlock. The man looks pale in the light, and John worries he might still be feeling the effects of the poison, but there is a steely strength to him, and he grips the reigns firmly in his hands, riding coming almost innately to him. Subconsciously remembered from his past life, perhaps?

As they approach Belgravia, Johns begins to make out the shadowy shape of buildings. One particularly large one must be the village church. He has visited Belgravia a few times in his life, and whilst it is bigger than the village he had called his childhood home, it is not somewhere he would think a man such as Dartolye, learned in the history of the entire land of both Sherrinford and Appledore, would live. Still, as they go off the main road and make their slow way around the buildings, seeking out the last on the left, next to the blacksmiths, there is a peacefulness to the place that might make it conducive to writing. Although, that may be because it is deep into the night.

They dismount from their horses, legs stiff after hours of riding. John helps Sherlock down, hands on his waist, and Sherlock stumbles a little before he regains his balance, spindly fingers gripping John’s arms.

“Thank you.” He mutters, head bowed. In the dim light of the waxen moon, the dark rings under his eyes seem even more prominent, and his shoulders are sagging. He must feel as exhausted as John, or possibly even more; making the decisions he has, that have got them this far; going through Magnussen’s unpleasant company, facing death, all whilst dealing with rediscovered memories that have conferred on his life a currency the man does not know how to spend. It would be enough to make even the strongest man weak at the knees, and Sherlock is the strongest man John has ever met.

Readjusting his bag, Sherlock walks around to Dartoyle’s small cottage, trying to ascertain whether the occupant inside is awake or asleep. John ties the horses to a nearby fence, giving each a stroke on the nose in thanks for their efforts. He then grabs his sword from their supplies, the metal ringing out in greeting, and joins Sherlock, who has moved to the front door.   

“There’s no light inside, I think he may be asleep.” Sherlock whispers. Just at that moment, the front door flies open, and a crouched figure steps into the doorway.

“Prince William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Doctor John Watson.” A voice says, old and rasping, the physical embodiment of an ancient volume of crinkled pages; worn but not beaten. He sounds a little irritated. “You’re a minute late.”


	17. The Dead of Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Character death in this chapter 
> 
> Thank you for your continued support. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

_“Prince William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Doctor John Watson.” A voice says, old and rasping, the physical embodiment of an ancient volume of crinkled pages; worn but not beaten. He sounds a little irritated. “You’re a minute late.”_

* * *

 

“I’m….sorry?” John says, glancing at Sherlock, who looks equally perplexed.

“Well in fact, you’re right on time, but you stopped about an hour ago, did you not, to take a short break?” The old man, Dartoyle, John assumes, says. John still cannot see his face properly, the man is so hidden in shadow, but he can make out the wispy outline of a scraggly beard, and the shadows that fall into the wrinkles that line the man’s forehead.

“Err….yeah,” John says. “Sorry, how did you-?”

“Well come in, come in, we haven’t got all night!” The man says, stepping aside to allow them access. John glances Sherlock’s way before he follows the other man into the cottage.

The cottage had looked small from the outside, but inside of it one really gets the feeling of being in a cave. But it isn’t an unpleasant cave, sharp with rocks and wet with puddles, but rather the cosy collection of an entire man’s life, and with a man such as Dartoyle, who knows the lands better than even its creator does, it is the collection of the land’s life, too. Candles in little nooks illuminate piles of books, loose papers. Beams across the ceiling are strung with even more papers, and John tries to make sense of them, as they trail across the ceiling; a timeline, perhaps?

“It is the exact same.” Sherlock suddenly remarks, and as the old man closes the front door to join them in this, the front room, he smiles, a chuckle leaving his throat.

“Ah yes, the map.” Dartoyle says, shuffling over to Sherlock. The man does not possess a cane, and although he is stooped, he seems to carry the demeanour very well; it suits him. “By a good friend of mine. She also did the one in King Charles’s library, yes-”

“Which you used to give me the correct coordinates for the location of the jewel.” Sherlock says, turning to the old man, eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Mr Dartoyle.”

Dartoyle smiles again. “That I did, your _Royal Highness.”_

“Please, don’t.” Sherlock says. “How did you know I would find that secret message? And how did you do it?”

“Lemon juice.” Dartoyle says, “Always handy to carry a lemon around with you. You never know when you might need to write a secret message. Although, I _do_ know when…”

“And how? How do you know that?” John asks, genuinely intrigued by this enigmatic man. Although, he is less man, and more myth, like the wizards in the stories his mother used to tell him.  

“Please, gentlemen, sit, sit.” Dartoyle says, ushering them to two small and rickety stalls which crowd a dully glowing fireplace. “Tea, both of you? And Doctor Watson, if you would be so kind as to restoke the fire.”

“How did you know our names?” John says as he does as asked, resting his sword against the wall and picking up a log to throw onto the fire, hoping it wasn’t something important secretly disguised as wood. In this place, that wouldn’t surprise him.

“You seem to know a lot of things,” Sherlock ponders. “But it’s not like what I can do, it isn’t deductions, not wholly. No, it’s as if you have pre-empted every move we make…”

“Let us call it foresight.” Dartoyle says, returning from a darkened corner with a tray carrying three cups of tea.

“So, what, you’re a soothsayer?” John says as he takes a drink for both himself and Sherlock, passing one to the other man. He hopes it will help Sherlock feel a little more revived.

Dartoyle tuts, looking at John sternly. In the light of the fire, John can now make out a thin face divided by dozens of wrinkles, a bushy brow, and piercing eyes which look black. “I prefer the word ‘sage’. Soothsayer makes me sound like a penny act at a fair. Which I will have you know I’m not.”

“Right. Sorry.” John says, feeling bashful. _Great first impression, Watson…._

“You knew I would find your secret message,” Sherlock says, eyes wide. “And you knew the third Moriarty jewel had been moved.”

“I was there, my boy.” Dartoyle says, taking a sip of his tea.

“So it was moved recently?” John asks, taking a sip of his own. Strangely, it is salty.

“Oh, no, good doctor, it was two hundred years ago.” Dartoyle says matter-of-factly. John nearly spits out his tea.

“Sorry, how old are you-”

“Well, let us get to the matter at hand, then.” Dartoyle interrupts him. He turns to Sherlock, looking up and down, from his stubbly head to his spindly fingers clutching the cup. “You have some questions.”

“I think they’ve already been answered.” Sherlock says. “I wanted to check with you the proper location of the third Moriarty jewel, but it seems you were there to see its removal from St Bartholomew’s Plain in the first place.”

“Hmm.” Dartoyle nods. “Of course it was the cathedral, in those days. You should have seen it; the spire stretched upwards of eighty feet! I saw the flood that destroyed it, and knew I had to tell your ancestors, Sherlock, to remove the jewel and keep it safe.”

“You wrote the riddle, didn’t you?” Sherlock asks, eyes unwavering from Dartoyle. “You were there.”

Dartoyle smiles. “The Moriartys are not the only ones who can bend nature to their will. Why should I not live these hundreds, near thousands of years, if I wanted to?”

_‘Well I wish someone had propositioned that to Greg before the man sacrificed himself like he most likely has’,_ John thinks grimly, disconcerted by Dartoyle’s strange stubborn nature.  

“So you’ve been here since the birth of the land?” John tries to establish. “And have known all this ever since?”

Dartoyle shrugs. “Not all. Sometimes things just appear in my mind, sometimes, I have to seek them out, if I feel an innate need to discover something.”

“And what you’ve told us? Did you have to seek that out?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh no, my dear boy, your story has been written since the first sunrise.” Dartoyle says, winking. Sherlock frowns, but says no more, sipping his tea.

“Wait, so hang on,” John says, “You’ve told us all this, and it’s a great help, thank you, I look forward to defeating Moriarty and Magnussen, but how can we know what you’ve told Moriarty? Maybe he already knows about our ruse, already knows the jewel is at Sherlock’s tomb?”

“Well, then what kind of author would I be then? Letting the ‘bad side’ simply win like that…” Dartoyle chuckles, trailing off and shaking his head. John does not think he has properly understood a word that has left the man’s mouth. “No, good doctor, I am not simply at liberty to tell those I wish what I think they ought to know. There are some threads in the tapestry of time I do not sew, and then there are those that I must care for, to make sure they maintain their durability, but I can do nothing else. Very rarely do I directly intervene. But your line…. well, it is rather special.”

“Why?” Sherlock asks.

“I cannot tell you that, it would be spoiling the future for you.”

“Well, if it would help us in defeating Moriarty and Magnussen, that would be good!” John protests, finally fed up with this man’s riddles. “Moriarty plans on taking control over life and death, you know! This is an army of the dead we’re talking about, not just some jewel being nicked!”

“Yes, I do, and I also know you already have the tools to stop him.” Dartoyle says, leaning back in his chair and taking a long gulp of his tea. John sighs, sagging forward in his own.

“Doctor Watson, you’re going to want to step outside for some air.” Dartoyle says, looking at John and shrugging.

The man’s words boil John’s blood even more, until it is almost bubbling over, and he need to cool off… it clicks, then, what the man had meant by saying he was going to want to, for the man’s prophecy has angered him. Lord, these riddles! John turns to Sherlock, who shrugs and looks at him helplessly. John sighs, rising to his feet.

“Yeah, yeah I think I will….”

“Doctor!” Dartoyle calls out again, and John stops, letting out another heavy sigh. “You forgot your sword.”

John turns, enough to give the man a dirty look and to retrieve his discarded weapon before he leaves the small cottage, thankful for when the time comes that they can get out of there.                                                                            

* * *

 

After John’s departure, Sherlock and Dartoyle sit in silence for a while, sipping at their tea. Finally, the old man shifts towards him, his limbs moving like the branches of an ancient oak tree; creaking yet strong.

Sherlock speaks before he can. “What do you mean, that my story has been written since the first sunrise?”

“I mean, it is something that has been set out since that time, I am as sure of it happening as I am that the sun will set and the moon will rise. You were always meant to, in one way or another, end up as the lost prince captured by the enemy. You were always meant to, somehow, fight back against said enemy.”

Sherlock blinks. He does not know how to take Dartoyle’s words. He thinks with a pinch of salt might be best; he does not disbelieve the man must somehow have lived since the creation of the land, what he has seen from the Moriartys confirms to him that it is possible for these things to happen, and it intrigues him. But, he cannot take that the man has no ulterior motive sitting down. John was right to be frustrated, even if he did loose his temper a bit.

“John’s right,” He says dismissively, “How can we know to trust you?”

Dartoyle leans forward then, placing a hand over Sherlock’s. His wrinkled skin is neither warm nor cold, and Sherlock cannot see any protruding veins. Sherlock wonders if he even has a pulse. “The land steers me in particular directions. Let me tell you, I _know_ , that the events you will bring into play are meant to happen. It is what the land wants. I do not side with anyone. I have told James Moriarty what he needs to know, and I have told you. I do not work for ulterior motives. I work only to see the tapestry of time continued.”

Dartoyle’s words are sincere, his grip on Sherlock’s hand strong and reassuring, and his piercing eyes meet Sherlock’s. The man is telling the truth. Sherlock is sure of it.  

“So, I have no control of what happens?” He asks with a sigh. It makes him uncomfortable, to think that he was always meant to make the decisions he has thus far, and that therefore, making them was possibly not as much of his decision as he had thought. So, what exactly _is_ going on here? Because if he is just _another_ pawn in a game much bigger than himself, will he ever be truly free? Truly know himself? Or will this ridiculous carousel keep on going round and round without stopping?

“Oh, no I wouldn’t say _no_ control. There is an intended pattern to the events which are unfolding at this time, but it is up to you what you do. Sometimes, a stitch get missed, or gets snagged. I’ve seen it happen before. But no, _you_ are the one who can make things happen. It is up to you.”

Sherlock nods, letting out a long breath. Dartoyle strengthens his grip on Sherlock’s hand even more, leaning further forwards.

“I know how you are feeling.” He says, and with a wry smile continues. “And not because I’ve foreseen it. No, I know that you are desperate to grab any control over any situation that you can.”

Sherlock licks his lips, nodding.

“It has been tough for you, hasn’t it?” Dartoyle continues. “There are times you find yourself wondering how you got here. How you will possibly live up to the expectations now placed on you. You are reluctant to admit it, though, aren’t you? It is only the beneficial company of the good doctor that has helped you to mentally grow from the misfortunes you have faced.”

“Yes.” Sherlock admits quietly. The man’s piercing gaze seems to swallow him whole, his black eyes a dark pit into which Sherlock is falling.

“Keep him with you.” Dartoyle says. “He is your conductor of light. Whenever darkness creeps in, in your mind, in reality, he will be there to help you through it.”

Sherlock licks his lips again. ‘Conductor of light’. Yes, John does seem to be that to him, but what is he to John?

Suddenly John bursts back into the cottage, eyes wide, panting. “Sherlock. We need to go.”

“Why? What’s happened?” Sherlock asks, standing.

“One of Magnussen’s troops is riding into the town. They must have spotted us.”

Sherlock pales. “Do you think Magnussen knows….?”

John grimaces. “Possibly. Come on! Let’s go.”

“Sherlock, my boy, there is a further reason the jewel is at your grave,” Dartoyle says as Sherlock shrugs his bag back onto his back, fumbling with the straps. “It is one I cannot tell you now, but knowing you, you will discover it soon enough.”

Sherlock pauses just long enough to offer the man his thanks before he is following John out of the old man’s cottage and into the dark of night. The old man watches both men go with a glint in his eye, knowing this will not be the last time he will meet the lost prince of Sherrinford.                                                                             

* * *

 

“There’s only one singular rider.” John says quietly as they return to the horses, John helping Sherlock onto his before untying them both and swinging himself up into his own saddle. “Which is strange, but we should go, head for the next checkpoint immediately.”

Their next checkpoint is a ruined castle just over the border, which had served at one point as the main sentry station for protecting the Sherrinford border. Lestrade had reckoned it would take them a day from Bulgravia; the sooner they get there the better. However, there is one crux in their plan.

“Where’s Lestrade’s contact?” Sherlock asks.

John shrugs, veering his horse around, away from the village. “I don’t know. But I’m not waiting for them now, not when we’ve got unwelcome company. Come on. South east. This way.”

Sherlock agrees, trusting John’s judgement. He veers Gladstone around, following John around the outskirts of the village.

They have almost made it, the main road ahead of them, when out of the trees which cluster around the furthest part of the village a rider, dressed in the colours of Magnussen’s armed forces, rears their horse out in front of them, forcing both men to pull on their reigns, Sherlock nearly falling from his saddle.

“Stay right there!” A voice calls, a feminine voice.

Next to Sherlock, John seems to freeze for a moment, brain screeching to a halt, before the man shakes his head before squawking, “ _Mary?!”_                                                                                

* * *

 

John can barely believe what he is seeing. Mary?! Mary, of all people! He can feel Sherlock’s curious gaze on him, and John has to shake himself to ignore it.

“Mary? What are you doing?” He asks, trying to regain his composure after his initial shock.

“I’m stopping you, John.” Mary says, bringing her horse into rest. “From whatever stupid thing you’ve got yourself wrapped up in.”

“Mary, you do not understand what is going on here. Believe me, what we are doing is not stupid. In fact, it is the complete opposite.” John tries to reason with her.

“Oh, taking Prince Sherlock Holmes right from under King Charles’s nose isn’t stupid, is it?” Mary asks with a raised eyebrow. The moonlight catches her face in half-light, making her expression, and her intentions, unclear.

“No, for if Sherlock were to stay with Magnussen, it would be much worse.” John says firmly, but his eyes are soft as he holds his hand aloft towards Mary in placation. “Look, Mary, you don’t know the whole plan-”

“I know King Charles is invading Sherrinford, and I know that Sherlock is most likely a vital component of that plan. Why else would he be at the castle?” She looks to Sherlock, eyes narrowing as she takes in his appearance. “You’re not how I thought you’d be.” She mutters.

“Yes, that’s correct, but Moriarty, he has something far worse planned.” John goes on, voice hoarse. “Mary, you must believe me when I say that Moriarty intends to raise an army of the dead that may destroy the entire world if anything goes wrong.”

Mary lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “What?”

“It’s true.” Sherlock says. “I can show you the proof, if you want.”

“That’s why we’ve escaped.” John goes on. “We’re trying to stop him. And if we don’t…. then, I don’t know who will, and before long, we’ll all be slaves to Moriarty’s schemes.”

Mary hesitates. “This sounds incredibly far-fetched.”

John scoffs. “Believe me, it took me a while to get my head around it, too!”

Mary hesitates again, but then she moves, swinging something out in front of her, and then John and Sherlock are facing the wrath of her crossbow. She turns it on Sherlock. “You must come back with me, to the castle.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I cannot do that.”

“You must be returned to Magnussen.”

“It is too late, anyway.” Sherlock replies, voice calm despite the crossbow which points his way. “Magnussen and Moriarty have already set off for Sherrinford.”

Mary scoffs. “At this time of night?”

“Oh, they think I’m dead, think they’ve lost their most important chess piece. They’re _panicking._ Your king isn’t so strong now without me. And Moriarty has no idea that I know how to stop him.”

John looks Sherlock’s way, unsure whether he is bluffing or not. Does Sherlock know how to stop him? Past getting to the jewel first, that is.

“Then we will catch up with them.” Mary says. “The army shouldn’t be too hard to spot once we retrace our steps a bit.”

“Mary, don’t-” John begins to say, but she cuts him off, gaze not leaving Sherlock.

“John, go, now. I’m not going to turn you into Magnussen, but I can’t let you run off with this prince, either.”

“Yes, you can. Please Mary, I promise you, everything we’ve told you is completely true. I’ve never lied to you. In all the years we’ve known each other, I’ve never lied, and I’m not lying now. Let me go, but let Sherlock go with me. Don’t make him go back there. They were disgusting to him, Mary, and he is so much better than that. _He_ can stop Moriarty from seeing through his unnatural plans, I know he can! Better to serve the fight against them rather than support them!” John finishes, chest heaving, and Mary bows her head, crossbow lowering. For a moment, he thinks he might have convinced her, but then her head darts up again, and so does her crossbow, still aimed at Sherlock.

“Oh, John.” Mary says, “Your heart was always bigger than your brain.”

“No, Mary, don’t, _please-”_

Suddenly, there is a whistling sound in the air, the sound of an arrow discharging, and the breath leaves John’s lungs. No. this cannot have happened. She cannot have shot Sherlock. Everything seems to be slowed down, the moment seeming to carry on for forever, and John’s gaze moves slowly from Mary to Sherlock, anticipating the dreadful sight he will see; an arrow lodged in Sherlock’s chest, or his stomach, or-

But there is no arrow, and Sherlock looks as shocked as he feels. John gaze swings to Mary, and where she sits upon her horse, arms spread at her sides, crossbow lost to the ground, with an arrow sticking through her chest.

Suddenly, everything slams back into normal speed.

“MARY!” John shouts, discarding his sword and leaping from his horse, stumbling as he tries to catch her when she falls sideways off her saddle, arms going limp. He manages to grab her shoulders, and he eases her down to the ground as carefully as he can, supporting her head.

“John.” She whispers, a line of blood making its way from the corner of her mouth.

“Don’t speak.” John commands, firmly in physician mode. He tries to survey the wound in the dim night of the night, but the slim conclusion he can make point to this wound being potentially fatal.

“Sherlock! Help please!” John shouts, not knowing where the other man is. His heart lurches with concern, and he risks a quick glance back at Sherlock’s horse, and is surprised to see Sherlock being helped down from his horse by a stranger, their face hidden by a hood. Sherlock looks calm enough, though, and so John prays to any deity out there that the person is an ally and turns back to the task at hand: removing the arrow and stopping the bleeding.

“John, don’t bother.” Mary says weakly, eyes fluttering shut.

“No, Mary, stay with me.” John commands. He shrugs off his backpack, fumbling inside and pulling out an old under shirt. Sherlock joins him at Mary’s side.

“Sherlock, start ripping this into strips, but give me a big wad first.” John says. Sherlock does as asked, and when John has the wad of fabric in hand he looks down at Mary.

“Ready?”

“John-” She begins, but he shakes his head.

“One, two, three!” He grasps hold of the arrow in one hand, pulling it out in one movement. He throws it away and presses the wad of fabric to the wound with his other hand, pressing hard. Mary cries out, and more blood leaves the corner of her mouth.

“Just hold on, Mary.” John says.

“John, stop, please, stop.” Mary says, and a hand comes up and grasps weakly at John’s, trying to prise him away. “I know it’s hit my heart. I can feel it, it’s too late.”

“No.” John shakes his head, and is surprised to feel the salty sting of tears behind his eyes.

“Yes. Please, just, hold me.” Mary pleads, and John finally relents, letting the cloth drop to the ground. Sherlock stops ripping up the fabric, and the only sound John can hear past the ringing in his ears is Mary’s erratic breathing.

He gathers her in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder. He tries not to jostle her, but she moans nonetheless, and the sound goes directly to John’s heart, as if it is he who has been shot, not her.

“I’m sorry, John.” She murmurs, growing slacker with every passing second. “I thought I was helping you.”

“You didn’t know.” John says.

“No, I didn’t mean _this_ ,” Mary says, fingers twitching. “I meant, when you came home from the war. And you were so damaged, physically and mentally. I just wanted to help you.”

“You did.” John tries to reassure, the lie bitter on his tongue. The only lie he’s only told her and it’s on her _deathbed._

“Don’t let me be known only as Mary Morstan, assassin. Please, I don’t want that. I was so much more; I was anything I wanted to be. So much more,” She takes a rattling breath, blood splattering all over her clothing as she exhales. “Than what others thought of me.”  

“I won’t.” John promises, nodding, tears dripping from his eyes and onto Mary’s cheek.

“I was me.” She says firmly, and the tentative strength behind her words tells John with a sickening jolt that this is it. “My own person. I belonged to nobody,” She gives one last stuttering inhale, “but myself.”

She does not exhale again.


	18. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support thus far on this story. Enjoy this chapter.

Sherlock’s chest tightens and the breath is squeezed out of his lungs. This is it. He’s been hit. Hasn’t he?

There is a moment, he knows from experience, where numbness settles over your body, and you don’t feel the impact of a weapon. But then the pain kicks in, and it eats away at the blissful moment of reprieve your body has and sucks the life out of you. Literally, in some cases.

But this moment of reprieve seems to be going on longer than is usual. The pain should have kicked in by now.

It is only when he looks down at his chest, he realises that he hasn’t been hit.  

“MARY!” John suddenly screams, leaping from his horse.

The woman. The woman John seems to know, who had been trying to stop them, she is the one who has been hit, he realises, seeing the arrow protruding, almost comically, from her chest.

He veers Gladstone around, trying to shield John from the assailant, not knowing who they might strike next. Which is when he sees them, lurching forwards from the darkness on their horse, crossbow still in hand. They come to a sharp stop, leaping from the saddle, and Sherlock curses himself for not having armed himself with his own sword sooner; he would be no good at it, unsure his muscles could carry the weight of the weapon in any effective way, but it would be something rather than nothing.

However, as the person, hooded, face hidden, approaches, they drop they hold their cross bow to the floor in one hand and raise the other in a gesture of peace.

“Do not fear me,” their voice is muffled. “I am not the enemy. Here,” they reach under their cape, rustling around for something, eventually pulling it out, holding it out to Sherlock on an open palm. “You might recognise this.”

In their palm rests a silver ring, the crest of the house of Holmes clearly embossed on it face. This must be Lestrade’s contact, right on time to get them out of a sticky situation.

The contact raises their head, finally revealing their face, and Sherlock is met by a pair of steely brown eyes, set into a woman’s face, cheekbones sharply defined in the moonlight. As she looks at Sherlock, a smile plays at the edges of her mouth.

“It is good to finally meet you, Your Highness.” She says, and she gives him an abrupt nod of her head. “My name is Anthea.”

“You don’t have to call me that.” Sherlock replies as Anthea hides the signet ring away again. “Is that your real name?”

“No.” Anthea replies abruptly.

“Sherlock! Help please!” John suddenly calls, and Sherlock glances from Anthea to John and then back.

“Help me down.” He says, and she lends him her arm for him to dismount from Gladstone as gracefully as he can.

“We must go, My Lord. Where is-” Anthea begins to say, but Sherlock is already turning to John, doing as the man says. Mary was alone, not even knowing that Magnussen and Moriarty have already set off for Sherrinford; he can allow John a moment to try and save the woman’s life.  

He tries to keep his face placid as he notices how much anguish John seems to be in, how desperate he is to save her, but Mary does not want to be saved, and Sherlock watches the tears fall from John’s eyes as she dies in his arms with curiosity. John has not mentioned a Mary to him, and yet he seems to care for her, enough to shed tears over her death. Although, that could be down to the shock, but John is hardy, so Sherlock thinks not. No. perhaps…. Perhaps this is the person John had alluded to, had called a “fling”, “someone to be with for the lack of anything more meaningful”. John’s words then had been dismissive, a means to an end of reassuring Sherlock of his continued presence by his side once they got out of Appledore Castle, but the man wears his heart on his sleeve, and his tears tell a different story. Although, when Mary admits to him the depths of her affection, her attempts to help him after John returned, injured and damaged goods, John lies.

Interesting. Sherlock can deduce people’s intentions and read emotions on their face and in their body language but understanding them… sometimes that can be a bit tricky. And John is sending completely mixed signals.

Mary eventually goes limp in John’s grip, taking one final breath, and John leans forward, covering her, letting out a small cry. Sherlock waits, improvised bandages discarded by his knees, allowing John a moment, although he is aware of Anthea’s impatient presence behind them.

John spends a long while just breathing heavily, holding Mary’s body, swaying slightly to and fro.  Sherlock holds a hand out, wanting to touch John’s shoulder, but he is not sure how welcome it would be, in this situation he is so alienated from, something from John’s life before he met Sherlock, which is a first for them.

“Sir.” Anthea says quietly, and Sherlock turns to him. “We really to do need to leave now.”

Sherlock nods, and turns back to John, finally deciding to lean further forward and place his hand on John’s shoulder. John does not react to his touch.

“John?” He says, voice as tentative as his touch. “John? We need to go.”

For another minute, John does not react, continue to hold Mary, but then he raises his head, sniffing loudly and he nods without looking Sherlock’s way. Sherlock rises, allowing John a final moment of privacy, turning towards Gladstone. He strokes the horse’s nose as he waits for John to move. The man does, setting Mary’s body on the ground. They do not have time to bury her; the residence of Bulgravia will have to find a spot for her in their graveyard, or somehow contact any relatives. Although, Sherlock thinks with a twitch of his eyebrow, perhaps Dartoyle already knows to expect her body, and has made arrangements.

John moves slowly away from Mary’s body, discreetly wiping at his eyes. It looks as if he will move straight past Anthea without acknowledgement, but before either Sherlock or Anthea can react he has grabbed her wrist, twisting it up behind her back, holding her in his grip. Anthea hisses but does not cry out.

“John!” Sherlock protests, stepping forward, although unsure of what he can do. John’s eyes are glassy, and anger clouds them.

“You didn’t have to kill her!” John spits at Anthea, tightening his grip.

“She was a threat; I did what I had to do.” Anthea says through gritted teeth, lines of pain showing on her forehead.

“We were reasoning with her. She would have let us go.” John argues back.

“And then run off to her master and to tell him of you both! Sherlock is supposed to be dead, how is it going to help us if they know he’s not, just because you had to let one soldier go?” Anthea protests back at John.

“John, please, I know what Anthea did was shocking but it’s understandable she saw Mary as a threat-”

“No,” John spits, letting Anthea go suddenly so she stumbles. He points an accusing finger at Sherlock. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

John walks past him, to his horse, picking up his discarded sword as he goes. Sherlock closes his mouth, realising it had been hanging open. John is right; he really does not know what he is talking about. The man seems hostile, angry, and this is the first time Sherlock has seen him really riled up. Something ominous crawls up Sherlock’s back and settles around his neck like a weighted chain; they are entering unchartered territory, both in their relationship to each other and in their fight for survival. They have been working together with shared sympathies since John was ordered by his side by Magnussen, but now Sherlock fights to push away the fear creeping in that cracks are starting to show as the game begins to change.

John has already swung himself into his saddle, and with a red tint to his cheeks Sherlock turns to Anthea for her help in getting on the horse. She comes over, and with furrowed brow and concerned eyes asks. “Where is Lestrade?”

Sherlock gives her a long look and shakes his head. Anthea pales, and he mouth quivers as she says, “ _Dead?”_

“We are not sure, but it seems probable that he is, yes.” Sherlock replies. Anthea closes her eyes for a moment, letting out a soft sigh. A moment of silence for a fallen ally. When she opens her eyes again, they are steely as before, and even more determined.

“Let’s go.”                                                                                        

* * *

 

John has barely said a word all day, and every time he avoids Sherlock’s gaze, a small voice in the back of Sherlock’s head taunts at him that he was foolish to think John’s trust and loyalty would not be tested, that the man would stick by him unconditionally. An old, pessimistic part of him rises up, saying he should not have put all his eggs into one basket, that caring is not an advantage. He had risen against it once before, in the library, when John’s loyalty to him was sure, there the two of them were, with only Lestrade as a newfound ally, stuck in the viper’s nest with no one else but each other to rely on. But now, now they are out in the open, no man’s land, and a supposed ally has shot and killed someone John seemingly felt a connection to. Sherlock has seen many people killed over the years, and John’s care was genuine, he could see that, for he has seen the very opposite, the complete indifference of the crowds watching at a slave sale, when one ‘unit’ became too weak and sickly to be sold, and so was ‘terminated’.

Maybe he had expected too much from John, seen him as infallible, despite his flaws and the troubles he has been through. Sherlock realises how much he has admired John, since first meeting; for his resilience, his kindness, his bravery. And now, he realises with a jolt, and he lurches forward in his saddle, he does not think he could cope without it; he would probably fall back into his old habit of supress and move on. Don’t feel anything for the sake of surviving. He does not want that. He cannot lose John. Dartoyle had called John his ‘conductor of light’, which is incredibly apt. It scares him how much the man has come to mean to him.

He feels a sickening lurch of self-hatred that in John’s time of need, he is worrying over whether the man will have faith in him again, want to stick by him, and he shakes himself in his saddle, getting a grip on his reigns, both physical and mental. He needs to trust in John, he tells himself, give the man some time. he glances over to where John rides beside him, eyes lost to another world completely, and it does not take much to deduce the man is deep in thought, worried, aggrieved. He thinks back to their conversation that day following his first night with Magnussen. He had been lost at sea, and John had reeled back in with the advice that facing emotions will make you stronger. Well, maybe that is what John is doing now, and Sherlock needs to give him time, like John had given _him_ time that day, and all those following.

He has been a fool. John had come into his life as such a positive force that Sherlock has failed to see the shadows that follow him, his ghosts. He has been aware of them, but never thought of them in the same way as he has thought about his; he had always just assumed John was stronger, could deal with those things better than him, as he was no inept. But now, he realises, John is just as breakable as he, and he needs to stop seeing the man as infallible, for it will not change the man; he will remain as strong as ever in Sherlock’s mind. It had happened before, after they had escaped through the tunnels out of Appledore Castle; John had taken a moment then to process his emotions. It was the first time Sherlock had seen him so shaken, but even then, the man had been strong, said the right thing at the right time. Sherlock had been thinking all about himself, thinking of what John had said only as a way to gain ‘points’ in their friendship, hoping for better equality, wanting to make himself better, like _John._

John has seen and been through many horrific things since a young age, and it has taken Sherlock a long time to look past the man’s strength to his weak points, but in doing so, he feels like he could become even closer to the man, the first person he can safely call a friend. And so, he will give John this time, stop being selfish with him, and hope the man comes out the other side of this day even stronger. Sherlock knows he will.                                                                              

* * *

 

They reach Blackmoor at nightfall, and the shadowy ruin of a once imposing structure does nothing to make each member of the party any more relaxed. It towers above them, cracked and crumbled stone walls feeling too much like a trap for all their anxieties. There is not roof on the place, it is far too dilapidated for that, and so a canopy of stars hangs above them, beautiful, but unreachable; they are stuck amongst the ghost of what has been, hidden but by no means secure.

Despite Sherlock’s insistence that Mary had been working alone, Anthea is incredibly careful about lighting a fire, despite how badly they all need a heat source. Sherlock is glad of Magnussen only for the clothes the man has provided for him: a thick cloak draped over his shoulders shields away chilly drafts and biting ice that he has, in the past, always come to expect.

They set up camp in what must have been the great hall of the castle, at one point, a cavernous gaping maw into which the darkness gathers like clouds. Anthea makes quick work of lighting a fire, and soon they are enclosed into the light of its presence, the contrast to the pitch black around them making their surroundings even more hostile, even more dangerous by being unknown.

A small meal of vegetable stew and bread of dubious quality from Sherlock and John’s supplies is eaten in silence, and Sherlock is relieved there are no knives of forks involved for him to embarrass himself over. He wonders what impression Anthea has gotten of him thus far; Lestrade had been shocked, he knows that much, at how different he had been from what they had all expected from Sherlock Holmes. He spills some of his stew as a lightning bolt strikes him from the surrounding darkness, a familiar worry over expectations and limitations and his own ability to be what is needed from him, by everyone, but most importantly, from himself. He feels John’s gaze on him, for the first time all day, it seems, but he ignores it, stabbing his spoon into the bowl.

“We will reach Langley tomorrow.” Anthea says, breaking a brittle silence. “It will not take long, by lunchtime, possibly, if we leave here at dawn. There we will have a safehouse with Irene Adler.”

Irene Adler; that name seems familiar to Sherlock, from somewhere, but he does not know where, and he is too preoccupied to go poking around in his mind palace.

“I’ll take first watch, if you gentlemen want to get some rest.” Anthea suggests, putting her empty bowl down, but John shakes his head.

“No, I’ll go first.” His voice is a little gruff from misuse, and he does not meet Anthea’s eyes. Still cross at her, then.

Anthea nods. Apprehensive, fingers fiddling with her coat cuff, Sherlock deduces, foot tapping against the ground. Aware of John’s anger, although not scared of it, just…. careful. “Alright.”

Sherlock plays with the stew he has barely eaten with his spoon whilst Anthea lays out her sleeping mat and lies down with her cloak over her. Impressively quickly, her breathing evens out, and she is asleep.

Sherlock lets out a slow breath and drops his bowl to the floor, clasping his hands together, elbows on his thighs, head bowed. He hears John put down his bowl, too, and the man clasps his hands together.

“I’m sorry.” He says, and Sherlock looks up at him. John is looking right at him, eyes glassy yet warm in the light of the fire. “I’m sorry, I’ve been truly monstrous all day, barely saying a word, not even asking if you’re alright-”

“John,” Sherlock says, interrupting him. “It’s fine. You lost someone…. Close to you, and you needed time to process that. Like you taught me.”

John nods, a surprised look on his face at Sherlock’s words. Sherlock does not blame him; he would not have given such a reply when they had first met, but he has been taught by the best, and follows his example, despite how surprised his teacher looks. “Yeah, yeah, thanks,” John says, but he is gritting his teeth. Slowly, a low laugh leaves him, and he shakes his head. “But the thing is, I didn’t actually care for her all that much. I mean- of course, I cared about her, but not as much as I probably should have, for someone who shared quite a lot with her.”

Sherlock remains silent, not sure what to say. John continues with a quick look his way. “I’ve known Mary for years. When I first moved to Appledore, and began training as a physician, she was one of my first patients. A trainee physician treated a trainee soldier for a fractured wrist, and there seemed to be a rapport between us, which later turned into something…. more,” he says, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock blinks, not comprehending what John is alluding to. John sighs. “There had always been a _physical_ attraction between us, but it was not until I came back from fighting, injured, down on my luck, that we became intimately involved.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says, nodding. “But….” He prompts, remembering the way John’s jaw had tightened and his eyes had flicked away and then back to Mary’s dying form as he had lied to woman moments before her death.

_‘I just wanted to help you.’_

_‘You did.’_

“But…” John says, sucking in a breath and biting down on his bottom lip. “I couldn’t share any more with her than my body. And that was bad enough. Not the, not the- _you know,_ but I always covered up my scar, from the arrow. Which in a way, I suppose, sums up the relationship; purely physical, with any deeper wounds hidden. And, that’s not what I want, from a relationship, a partner, whatever you want to call it. I had thought, before I got injured, of marrying her, if she’d have me. But then my injury happened and for some reason, the anguish of that injury made me realise that marrying Mary would not make me happy. I really understood what being happy meant, for following that injury I had no joy in my life. She was always there, when I needed her, but it was the support of friendship, more than that of a partner. And I felt bad, I couldn’t lead her on like that any longer. Besides, if I had, she probably would have shot me with her crossbow. Not anywhere critical but enough to leave a sting.” He jokes, an exhausted laugh leaving his body. “She didn’t know me. Not really. And that’s not to say she wasn’t… _enough,_ as she was, but she didn’t feel the right person to share things with. She had no idea of the things I saw, I’ve never really shared with anyone what I really felt, only one other person-”

His voice breaks off and he bows his head, taking a long, steady exhale. Sherlock gently grinds his teeth together, knowing John is referring to him.

“And that’s what I want from a relationship” John confesses, and finally he looks to Sherlock, making eye contact. “Someone who knows me, who shares with me their worries and listens to mine, too.”

Sherlock fights not to let any expression show on his face, for in his gut there is a desperation clawing to get out. The burning embers in his stomach are being stoked by John’s words, and he would not be surprised if John saw smoke coming from his ears. He _wants_ what John is describing, and he can deduce from the way John’s eyes are now fixed firmly on himself and the way the man’s hands are tapping against his thighs, agitatedly, that John is sharing this intentionally with _him._

For so long, Sherlock did not ponder on the thought of ever sharing his life with someone, for he did not, strictly speaking, have a life to live; he was just existing as someone else’s property. He has spent weeks, months, in the company of others, enforced, and most of the time unpleasant, unagreeable, never out of choice. He has never had a friend, only a peer, or perhaps someone sympathetic to him, but who would treat him, nonetheless, as less than them. But John, John has always treated him as a _human_ , and he had thought that would be enough, just to be graced with John’s presence for a few days. But, the man’s continued presence has made him spoilt, and he craves so much more; not just John’s co-existence, but their existence together.

He wants John with him indefinitely, and it seems John wants that too, and that should make him joyous, should it not? Although how he would express that he does not know, and instead of cartwheels of joy, his stomach instead does cartwheels of apprehension. Can he give John what he wants? Will he be enough? So far, all he has shared with John is his troubles with facing all that has happened to him, because that is all he has had to share; as already stated, he has been existing only on misfortune and the action of others. And now, now he is beginning to make his own choices, but he is faltering and doubtful; he had been completely sure of his convictions, but after meeting Dartoyle, he begins to wonder if maybe that was just the machinations of some greater power, and that he, himself, is a puppet to it in that respect, leaving him just as unsure and lost as before he became a free man and a prince. What does he have, past surviving a continuing series of unfortunate events? Nothing, nothing he can share with John. Those doubts that have been plaguing him all day, about identity, and definition, swoop down on him again like a flock of magpies, plucking away any hope he has felt and leaving him gaping and empty in their place.

His entire approach to human emotion and feeling has been unorthodox, and John has altered his understandings of normal human function to suit Sherlock, but Sherlock does not know what he can do to help John; it had taken him a long while to understand why John was so quiet following Mary’s death, for goodness sake! He is a façade of understanding, a fake. He does not understand like John does; he can never, really, be good enough for a man like John.

“And, the whole string of crazy events that have happened, and are still happening, have made me realise that waiting around for it to happen without doing something just isn’t going to work.” John continues. Sherlock swallows; John is moving fast, driven by the events that have swallowed up their entire co-existence, and Sherlock is not sure he can keep up. John wants what he had with Mary and more. And if Sherlock cannot provide for John mentally, he knows he cannot physically, as well. Not in the intimate sense.

He winces and ducks his head as from beneath the floorboards of his mind palace, spindly finger-like roots crawl up, grasping for the freedom above. He can feel Magnussen’s touch all over him, remember the smell and the _moisture_ of the man’s breath upon his cheek. These are the only experiences he has in terms of sexual contact, and they make him sick to his stomach. Another stabbing anxiety clutches him; what if that is all he will ever be able to experience? What if Magnussen has ruined that for him for the rest of his life? When he is absorbed by other things or has had time to process it, the memories do not become so overwhelming, but he cannot stop himself from imagining being that intimate with John, and becoming absorbed by the memories of what has come before, and being unable to see it through.

He fails at stopping a small gasp from leaving his mouth. Has _everything_ been ruined for him?

“Sherlock?” He hears John call, the man’s voice laden with his own anxieties, and here Sherlock goes again, getting caught up in his own worries because he is not competent enough to deal with them whilst John’s go unnoticed and unacknowledged.

He needs to get a grip on himself, if he has any hope of salvaging the situation. He turns to John’s room in his mind, pulling open the carriage doors. He is greeted with the memories of lying with John in the same bed as the man provided him with comfort in their early days at Appledore Castle. It is not surprising that those memories elicit more warmth and contentment than the memories of sharing Magnussen’s bed, and not just because they had come as an immediate remedy to the hurts he had been caused at the time, but because of the man next to him, his steady and unthreatening presence. There had been nothing sexual, in sharing a bed with John, and he worries now that those memories will be tarnished, too, as the conversation he now finds himself hapless in has wiped any innocent intentions from the table. There is no turning back now.

He opens his eyes again, coming back to the present, and to the uncertain and worried gaze of John. John, who cannot know the thought processes that have passed through his brain in the last seconds, but for whom they will have the greatest impact.

“Look, I’m sorry if this has been too much too soon.” John is saying, his words careful, a fragile pane of glass. His eyes flick over Sherlock’s form before lowering to his own lap, a heavy sigh leaving him. “Yeah, maybe this has been. Maybe we should just get some rest and focus on the task at hand. Maybe I’ve been a bit cock-sure, it’s neither the time nor the place, and I-”

“John.” Sherlock interrupts, stopping the man’s stream of hurried words. He wets his mouth, which feels as dry as a desert. He is ready to come out with a litany of ‘I am inept in regards these things, I do not have the capacity for such a situation’, a stream of words intended to quell both of their passion, despite how backwards it feels, as if he is fighting a current. But before he can, however, something comes over him. Or rather, _someone._

There is a ringing in his ears, as if the inside of his head has become a cavernous space, with a huge wave pushing in, threatening to flood. He cries out, putting his hands over his ears, completely unaware of what is happening around him; all he can focus on is what is going on in his head. He has felt this pressure before, this feeling of being caught in a miasma of moments happening all at once. The force is determined, pushing past the streams of his mind and to the forefront of his brain, to what is happening in the present. It feels as if it is trying to take control of his _eyes,_ and they feel as if they are burning away as the pressure fights for control. But Sherlock is not going to give it up easily, and he fights back. He clenches his eyes shut, teeth gritted with the effort as he forces the pressure away. He is thankful for the mental training he has already garnered through his life in building mental walls, for now he throws them up all around the pressure, blocking its force from seeing anything. He must be screaming, he thinks, in the real world, as he struggles with all he has to finally, _finally,_ push the force out of his mind.

His head feels strangely light afterwards, and his eyes shoot open as he falls forward. Strong arms encase him, holding him close to someone’s chest. His eyesight is blurry, and he realises it is the salty sting of tears as he blinks them away, the figure of John above him, holding him, coming into focus. Breaths are shuddering in and out of him, causing shivers to wrack his body, despite being next to the fire. John must have caught him, he realises, to stop him from falling into the flames.

“Will?” John says, the old name slipping out in his concern. “Sherlock? Can you hear me?”

Sherlock looks around him, from John’s concerned face above him, to a now awake and alert Anthea, kneeling by his side. He swallows, finding his voice, and it comes out as a croak. “Janine. She knows I’m alive.”                                                                                         

* * *

 

Janine screams, stumbling backwards as she is unceremoniously shoved out of Sherlock’s mind. She catches herself on the edge of the desk before she falls to the ground beneath her, breathing heavily, head spinning.

After a moment, she manages to gain enough equilibrium to bring herself to her full height, straightening her spine and getting her breathing under control. She pours herself a goblet of wine, drinking it in one big gulp, sighing at the cool and tangy relief which grounds her to reality. She pours herself another.

James comes striding into the tent with a flap of the fabric and a huff of breath. He looks to his sister expectantly, a small crease between his brows. “Well, sister? Did you find him?”

She nods, “Yes. He’s alive.”

James smiles, a gleeful _ha!_ Leaving his mouth. “I knew it! I knew it, death is too boring for him…” He begins to pace, hands rubbing together. Janine watches him, anger and indignation rising within her.

“Oh, don’t be so pleased, he deceived us! And who knows what he could be doing! Possibly he is trying to get to the jewel before we can, or he knows something we do not! Have you got anything out of the prisoner yet?”

James shakes his head, a small grin still marring his face. “No, he’s resilient, I’ll give him that, but I recognised the man immediately. One of Mycroft’s men. I should have known the iceman would have his little spies all over the place. But how much he knows I have yet to glean from him…”

Janine scoffs, “The man’s mind is like a solid wall! I should have expected this of a man who serves Mycroft Holmes; the fat bastard makes them as unbreakable as he himself is. Iceman indeed!”

“If Mycroft knows to expect us in battle, it will be of no matter. Not if we can still influence Sherlock.”

Janine raises an eyebrow, “There might be a problem with that. He pushed me out, James! He is stronger than any I have encountered before. No one has been able to do that.”

James, however, is far from concerned, and seems to light up even more. “Oh….” He says, clapping his hands together under his chin. “Good, very good!” 

“Oh, please! Stop being so delighted, it’s insufferable! Now we may not have any way of knowing what he is doing! I cannot push much further; I have to preserve my strength for the big event!”

Moriarty’s eyes narrow, and he taps his bottom teeth against his top. “He can’t destroy it, and even if he could, he wouldn’t. No, that would be too obvious, too boring…” He mutters.

Janine rolls her eyes. “You have too much faith in him, James. I myself am a realist, and I say we should send Moran after him.”

James shakes his head. “No. Not yet. Keep pushing him, just a little, enough to make him realise that he can get in communication with us. In escaping us he may have served our purpose much better; it will make his coming back to us that much sweeter! And he will realise, soon, that being on the side of the angels is so very boring.” He flings himself into one of the two chairs which furnish the large tent they occupy on their journey to Saint Bartholomew’s Plain, to the battlefield. It is furnished elegantly but sparsely, with enough to keep them comfortable without being horridly uncomfortable. He shoots Janine a glare. “Besides, you’ll use more energy on Moran than you would communicating with Sherlock!”

Janine sighs, glaring back. “If you paid more attention to me, than flirting with the possibilities that Sherlock might bring, you’d understand that physical spells are much less draining than mental ones. I don’t pervert the use of my jewel, like you do!” She plays with the jewel which hangs around her neck, normally tucked under her dress but now, in the privacy of her tent, is on display, its red hues catching the candlelight and dancing across the ceiling of the tent as she moves. “This is natural talent!”

James gives her a condescending look, rolling his eyes, and Janine grits her teeth, spitting. “This isn’t just about you and him, James! I also have a stake in this! And if Sherlock does anything to try and destroy the jewel, because you’re more preoccupied with wanting to play with him, instead of bringing around to our side, then I will never forgive you!” She turns her back to him, tears born of anger and frustration and the wait of an entire lifetime stinging her eyes. “You should have just told him when you first brought him to Appledore. Why did you obsess on letting him play around with that doctor, and possibly even that soldier of Mycroft’s?! You may have created a rival where there may have been an ally!”

“Because when he finally works it out, and comes back to us, I want it to be because he chose to.” James replies, tone cold and hard, like the rocky cliffside; resilient, standing firm against the rough seas. “I trust in him, to do the exciting thing, to not be boring!”

Janine shakes her head, taking another gulp of wine. It tastes bitter, now. “Dartoyle spoke nothing of this, he spoke barely of anything but that damn riddle, which now seems to be leading us to the ruin of some stupid church! How can you be so sure?”

James rises from the chair, swanning over to his sister, getting so close she can see the flecks of golden light in his eyes. The same gold which also resides in hers, in any Moriarty’s. “Push him, Janine, give him reminders touching on who he is. We freed Sherlock from a life of anonymity, it is only natural he be curious as to who he is now, and I want to give him the choice, let him wonder, but know it is inevitable who he will turn back to in the end.”

Janine meets his gaze, unwavering. “Tomorrow. I will set Moran after him this time tomorrow. You push your little soldier, I’ll get into Sherlock’s head, but we nonetheless send out the precautionary predator.”

James sighs, “Fine. So be it. In the end Sherlock will do the right thing.” He turns, sauntering out of the tent. Janine rolls her eyes as she swigs at her wine, the rich taste enough to dull the sensations of the detritus of someone else’s mind washing up on the shore of her own after she has poked around in another’s head. Lord, she hates her abilities sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	19. Deeper Meanings

John watches the back of Sherlock’s head intently, head spinning, mind whirring.

He should be worrying about the bigger concern at hand here, the one that drives them forward with a more desperate fervour than before. But he finds himself contemplating the events of the night _before,_ as in, before Janine had interrupted their conversation and given up their ruse. As they approach Langley, and their safehouse with a certain Irene Adler, John’s mind wanders as he wonders what might have been of yesterday’s conversation.

Embarrassment and shame rise in his gut as he worries that he may have pushed too far. Sherlock is still incredibly delicate mentally; whilst he has been improving on working through his emotions, years of trauma do not go away so quickly. John wonders if having him make such a choice was too much for the other man, for the way he went about it was about as delicate as the swing of an axe. And now, following his silence after Mary’s death, and his frank conversation about his intimate relations with her, he worries he may have spooked the other man. The irony is that John has shared more with Sherlock than anyone else, which, as he told the man, is the thing he would like most from a close relationship. But, in sharing about his past relationship with Mary, he may have crossed a line, and left the other man bemused, confused, and overwhelmed.

He could slap himself. Sherlock has just escaped from the hands of a man who had taken advantage of him in the most intimate way, and here John is, talking about his own experiences in the same breath as he spouts his hopes for a closer relationship and what he might get from one. _Of course,_ Sherlock would be overwhelmed. The most annoying aspect is he has absolutely no expectations for anything sort of sexual contact between them. It would be nice, but if Sherlock is not ready, or does not at all want it to be that way, John will understand completely. He was truly honest when he said he cares more about an honest relationship than one based on the physical connection of their bodies, even if Sherlock is the most mesmerising creature he has ever seen. If he had just kept it at that, then maybe the conversation would not have been so disastrous; making Sherlock see nothing would monumentally change were they to make that step closer to each other.

And now Sherlock will not meet his eye and has barely said a word to him this morning. If only Janine hadn’t interrupted when she did, he is _sure_ Sherlock was about to admit something to him, no matter how soul crushing it may have been. Words always seem to be on the tip of both of their tongues, conversation never seen through to the end. There are things John knows Sherlock is not telling him, for example he had not told him about the jewel immediately, for starters, but John trusts he has good reason. And obviously, secrets are healthy, sharing everything would be detrimental; you cannot share your lungs with someone without suffocating yourself. But now John has forced the other man’s hand, forced him to confess both to himself and to John what he feels he wants. This awkward world between not knowing and knowing is unbearable.

Maybe he should not have said anything, and let events proceed in their own way, but he had wanted to grasp the moment in his hands, take control of a moment of peace in which he might find something for the both of them to have, together, irrespective of what deadly plot they have to stop or which domineering king they have to survive. Janine’s interruption should have come as a sign to him, he realises now, shaking his head, that seeking out what he wants is not going to happen.

Maybe he should just give up the ghost.                                                                                

* * *

 

Sherlocks feels conspicuous, a shady figure, with his hood up, but Anthea had insisted it was necessary, as they enter the bustling town of Langley and head for their safehouse. Sherlock recognises the town, but from a completely different perspective; he has been here before, with Warton and Smith, when they had surplus ‘stock’ to sell off. Here, slanderous activity elicits slanderous sales, and one can seemingly get away with anything, if it is out of sight. He supposes that having their hoods up makes them blend in, despite it being midday, with the sun bursting occasionally from behind clouds. They look like they fit in a town of such squalor.

Anthea leads them to the very backstreets, through winding roads filled with vendors and their wares. Sherlock looks away and down as they pass a slave market; it is not conspicuous, only a simple looking large house, but from the bars on the windows, the crumbling façade, and personal experience, Sherlock knows what horrors go on behind those doors. To his further disgust, Anthea leads them off a side road on the opposite side of the main street from the slave market, around to the back of the opposing building, where a small stable area awaits their horses. So, it seems Irene Adler lives opposite the slave market. Wonderful.

John helps Sherlock down from Gladstone with a hand on his arm. Sherlock accepts, murmuring his thanks as John lets him go.

“Alright?” The other man asks, and Sherlock nods. He is strangely grateful for Janine’s interruption last night, for it has given him excuse not to think on John’s conversation, nor on his on reply. But it has left an awkward air between them, words seemingly constantly on edge of John’s lips but never being spoken. Luckily, the fast travel they have made since dawn, and not a moment earlier, despite Anthea’s worry, John’s insistence that Sherlock rest saw them staying at Blackmoor for the night, as planned, has scuppered any chance of conversation.

“Come.” Anthea says. “Let’s get inside.”

She leads them to a side door, a rotten piece of wood in a flimsy frame, and Sherlock is surprised when the thing does not simply fall off the hinges when Anthea knocks on it. After a moment in which they all stand in an awkward silence, the smell of urine which fills the alleyway assaulting their nostrils, the door creaks open, an eye peeking out. It lights up when it sees the three of them, and it is flung open.

“Well, well, well.”  A woman with glinting blue eyes, dark hair piled on top of her head and a mischievous grin on her face says. “The not-quite prodigal son returns.”

Sherlock realises her eyes are on him, evaluating him. He frowns slightly; there is something familiar about her, which is when he remembers: Warton and Smith used to do business with this woman; she would take women, typically young and fragile, off their hands. He bristles, his chin raising as he looks the woman up and down. He falters as he realises there is nothing he can deduce about her; she is at once an open book and a closed one. Her clothing, a flimsy yet expensive looking dress which dips between her breasts and gathers at her waist, gives the impression of a woman who flaunts her body to impress, who uses it to her advantage. It is her weapon. And yet, there is something beneath, something deeper, more complicated, but Sherlock cannot work out what.

Whilst Sherlock has been lost in these thoughts, the woman, presumably Irene Adler, has also been surveying him, and her eyes are narrowed. “Wait a moment, I know you, don’t I? Or, I recognise you. Yes, hang on, you were with those piggy slave dealers! Except you were scrawnier and poorly dressed….” She looks from Sherlock to Anthea, brows raised in surprise. “A slave boy, the lost prince of Sherrinford? Gosh I do love a bit of drama!”

“Yes, and if we could bring that drama inside, please.” Anthea says, practically forcing her way past Irene and into the building. Irene does not mind, her eyes fixed on Sherlock once again. Sherlock holds her gaze, making his distrust shown, until she bows out and holds out an arm, inviting Sherlock and John into the building.

They follow without another word.                                                                                                 

* * *

 

“So, tell me, Charles Magnussen- is he as brutish as they say he is?” Irene asks, sitting herself down on one of her cushy armchairs, cup held in long fingers, eyes alight.

“Depends on your definition of brutish,” John mutters under his breath, taking a sip of his own cup. Irene has served them tea in her front parlour. It is a room made splendid by someone with an eye for expensive taste. The velvet armchairs and thick curtains, and the tea set and dainty decorations which fill the room are not what Sherlock would have expected of the building, from the outside, but it seems that like its owner, the building too keeps secrets buried inside.

“Getting to the matter at hand, Adler, you have a letter for me?” Anthea asks, holding a demanding hand out. Irene sighs, rising from her chair and padding over to a bureau, pulling open a drawer and taking a slip of paper out. She hands it to Anthea with a flick of her wrist, who takes it and unfolds it impatiently. Whilst Anthea reads, Irene seems to notice the untrusting looks both Sherlock and John are shooting her; the moment John had clocked Sherlock’s distrust his own flared up like a rash. She raises and eyebrow, shrugging. “What?”

“Why are you, of all people, our safehouse contact?” Sherlock asks.

Irene takes a sip of her tea, a slight smile coming to her lips. “Interesting, who do you think I am?”

“A pimp. Whoring out those who do not wish to be used like they are.” John spits. They had passed, on their way to the parlour, many women, and the occasional man, scantily clad; it was not hard for either of them to deduce where exactly they were, Sherlock just wishes Anthea had given them a warning.

Irene contemplates this, head tipping to the side. “Well, you are to an extent right. I suppose I am a pimp, but the men and women who work for me do not do it against their will. They want to work here, and their wage is good. No, look around you, do you think this sort of wealth comes simply from running a brothel?”

“No.” Sherlock replies. He has known many a pimp, or someone of a similar calibre, and their overall appearance matches that of the house’s exterior, rather than this sumptuous interior.

Irene smiles. “I run a spy ring. The brothel is just a front. The enslaved I take off the hands of traders and dealers I abruptly emancipate and offer a position gathering reconnaissance from both kingdoms. Or, if they do not want that, provide them with safe passage back to their home.”

John lets out a little ‘oh’ sound, taking a sip of his tea. Sherlock fights to keep a smile off his face; he will not feel guilty for the assumption he made about Irene to begin with, but now he cannot help but be impressed by someone who would use their position in society to help others, and be incredibly successful about it.

“Ah, I always enjoy watching people’s reactions when I give them the truth, how hate turns to admiration.” Irene says, trailing a finger from her neck down to her clavicle, letting it trail there. She winks at Sherlock, who raises his eyebrows. “Let me savour it for a moment.”

 “Magnussen shall be at St Bartholomew’s Plain within the day.” Anthea announces, her eyes still trailing over the letter.

“Magnussen and Moriarty are nowhere near.” Irene says, and Sherlock and John look at her in surprise. She notices, as she seems to notice everything. “You think I would not take a commission from the man who rules this land in his father’s name? Mycroft appreciates my business more than I think he would ever admit, I provide more information than his lacklustre attempt to have spies does.”

Anthea shoots Irene a look, but it isn’t scathing. In fact, it seems… fond.

“So you can be trusted, then? Not to sell information to Moriarty or Magnussen?” John asks, and Irene scoffs.

“Why on earth would I do that? I would not consort with a man like Magnussen even if my life depended on it. Besides, I live in Holmes land. Mycroft approved the license for this establishment, and he could easily take it away.”

John shrugs. “The whole bloody world has turned upside down, and I’ve barely known you for an hour, don’t blame me for being cautious.”

Sherlock lowers his head to hide his smile.

“Sherlock,” Anthea says, looking up from the letter. “Mycroft wants you to return to Musgrave Palace,” Sherlock goes to interrupt, but Anthea holds up a hand to stop him. “despite what Greg had written him, about keeping the secret of the Moriarty jewel between as little people as possible, he thinks it best for you to return there and he will have people sent out to retrieve it. And… I have to agree, especially now Janine knows you’re alive and seems to be able to get in your head. We cannot have them knowing you are heading for where the jewel really is. You _must_ return to Musgrave Palace.”

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. “I have to go. And I can. I was able to push Janine out last night and I can do it again. Besides, I have heard it from a sage man that I have all the weapons I need in order to destroy it.”

The words are a slight perversion of the truth, Dartoyle had spoken those words, but Sherlock has no idea what he meant, but he will do what he must to ensure his ongoing mission.

Anthea is frowning. “I have never heard of anyone being able to push Janine Moriarty out of their head.”

“Nor I.” Irene says, tapping at her teacup with a finger. “I have heard of a man go insane after she drove him out of his _own_ mind, twisting his screws until he could not function, but never of someone forcing her out.” She leans forward in her chair. “How on earth did you do it?”

“I’m not quite sure, but don’t you see, it’s not a problem, and with myself able to shut her out, it makes better sense for me to go, rather than someone who might be vulnerable to Janine’s powers.” Sherlock says, hands gesticulating. John shoots him an impressed smirk, and the warm embers in his stomach flare up. He pushes them down.

“Janine can only get in your head if she’s been in there before. Ergo, it would be better for someone who has not met her to go, rather than yourself, Sherlock, who has already been exposed to her powers.” Anthea argues back.

John sighs and leans forward in his chair. “Look, I understand, believe me I do, that Mycroft wants to protect his brother from harm. But, he should not stand in the way if Sherlock believes that he will be able to help, to make a change. You heard what the man said, he wants to go, he has the weapons he needs to destroy this jewel. Why stop him? We’ll be with him, should any trouble arise, which it shouldn’t, because I _know_ Sherlock, I know he’s a fighter, I know he can keep Janine out and keep the Moriartys ignorant to our mission. He’s survived through some terrible things, and so I think to ignore his decision and to think him incapable of defending himself would be an injustice. _Let him go._ And tell Mycroft that.”

Sherlock cannot help but stare at John, his mouth slightly open. He thinks that is the kindest thing anyone has ever said, and it should not surprise him coming from _John,_ but it does. His stomach clenches, and he bites the inside of his cheek. To have someone evaluate him in such a manner is more than he would have once thought possible. To have someone know him so well, it feels good.

His delight is diminished, however, when his thoughts of the previous evening rear their head, slamming his delight against the rocks and dashing them to pieces. John is not speaking of him, he is speaking of the experiences ‘Sherlock’, ‘Will’, whoever, has lived through, survived through, without a chance to build his own character. No matter how helpful John’s words, they don’t describe _him._

Anthea and Irene seem just as impressed by John’s words, going by the astonished look on Anthea’s face and the smirk on Irene’s.

“Alright.” Anthea says. “I will allow it, but don’t think Mycroft will approve.”

John shrugs. “He can’t complain if we get the job done.”

“There is one thing I still don’t understand,” Anthe says. “Weapon? You can’t have a weapon. There’s only one, and it resides in Musgrave’s weaponry.”

Sherlock blinks. “What is this?”

Anthea looks for the right words. “There’s a sword, in the armoury, it’s been there for hundred of years, apparently. It is said that that is the one weapon that can kill evil. If there were ever a threat to the balance of the world, to the natural order, then one must use this sword to stop it.”

Interesting. Dartoyle had not said anything about a sword.

Irene giggles. “I’m not quite sure a sword can fix everything.” Anthea rolls her eyes at the other woman and Irene winks back.

“All I’m saying is, I’m not sure what this weapon you have is.” Anthea says.

“Well I do, and when the time comes, I’ll use it.” Sherlock says, reassured that his bluff works when Anthea nods.

“Very well. I will write to Mycroft and see if he can send out a rider to your grave, to deliver the sword to you. I will also write him of Janine, and her being in your head. No, Sherlock I will, he needs to know.” Anthea says when Sherlock begins to protest. “For now, we rest. Once we hear back from Mycroft, we will evaluate what we shall do.”

“Come, I will show you to your room.” Irene says, rising from her armchair. She looks between Sherlock and John with a smirk on her face. “I assume you two are sharing?”

That hits too close to home, and Sherlock can practically feel John’s wince like a slap to the face. He feels his own cheeks flush a pink hue. When neither man answers, Irene simply hums and turns, a beckoning finger telling them to follow her.

Sherlock follows John and Irene down a corridor and to a flight of stairs. They pass by one landing, and then head up another flight before she stops them outside a closed wooden door. “I do not have business transactions on this floor, so do not worry about that. I will have someone bring you some food and drink.”

John nods, opening the door, nudging it open with his shoulder. They all peer in, to be greeted with an attic room with sloping ceilings and a small and dusty dormer window. It is furnished only with a double bed, table, and singular chair. Irene lingers only for a moment, looking between the both of them with a knowing look in her eyes. “It’s a double bed.”

“Yeah.” John says gruffly, shouldering his way into the room, slinging his backpack on the floor. “Thanks”

Irene leaves with a raised eyebrow, descending the stairs with a loud slap of her shoes against the steps. With a sigh Sherlock follows John in, closing the door behind him. He throws his bag on the floor to join John’s and sits himself down on the edge of the bed, seeing as John has sat in the only chair in the room.

As Sherlock looks around, carefully taking in all the new data he procures from the room, he notices the bed seems to take up most of the room, the chair John now sits in and a small table being squeezed into a corner. Were John not on the short side, he would have to bend his head to sit comfortably.

“This room has not been inhabited in months.” He deduces.

“Well, at least we know Irene wasn’t lying, and that there hasn’t been any funny business going on in here.” John says with a smirk. “Not sure I could sleep knowing there’d been some…. anyway…” He says, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat, obviously made uncomfortable by his own words. Strange, Sherlock thinks. John is nervous. As nervous as he is. Before Sherlock can think what to say, to explain the hurricane of confusion going on inside his head, John speaks.

“Are you alright?” He asks, and Sherlock cannot stop the laugh that rises in him. Here he is, a hurricane in his mind, and John is asking him to summarise how he feels in words. That isn’t possible. Not now, not when he barely understands anything going on around him. He puts his head in his hands, grinding the thenars into his closed eyes. When he looks up, John is watching him carefully.

“What do you want from me, John?” He asks, not meeting John’s gaze. He clasps his hands together so tightly that his fingers turn pink from the pressure they put on his knuckles.

John lets out a long breath, eyes darting over Sherlock face. he opens his mouth a few times before finding the words he wants to say. “Sherlock, look, I didn’t go about it very well, last night. That conversation did not go how I was hoping it would, and then of course Janine interrupted and any chance at explaining myself last night was shot. So, let me do that now?”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut for second before opening them again and nodding. Okay, obtain John’s side of the story, process what he is feeling, re-evaluate and proceed from there. Treating this logically helps.

John licks his lips before starting. “What I said last night, was all a bit too…. Expectant. I made what I wanted to say into a big event, made it more than it should have been, and that was wrong. I should not have made comparison and reference to Mary, and what I had with her, when talking about us. It was… apt, on my mind, of course, but a bad reference point with which to start. What I was trying to say, and what I mean to say now, is that I have no…. expectations. There is absolutely no pressure on you, to… have things, do things, with me. I just… saw the situation we are in, with all it cannot promise and all we risk, and decided to at least grab onto something and try and come out victorious. Positive. But I was too hasty. Too…. Ineloquent, giving you a speech I could have given to anyone. I should have realised, should have said the things that already go unsaid between us.”

Sherlock bites his lip. John, in a roundabout way, is referring, he knows, to the natural comradery between them, the way they seemed to slot together, fit like two sides of the same coin, since first meeting. Sherlock does not fully understand it, cannot process how something could come so naturally between John, a man so well rounded despite all he has seen and been through, someone who makes mistakes, but has a strong sense of their own values, their own morality, and himself, who’s fragile sense of identity is being shaken to its very core. And Sherlock is even more confused now, because surely John must have _some_ expectations, of something between them, to have suggested it in the first place.

He puts this to John, continuing to put even more pressure on his hands with his fingers. John frowns, thinking Sherlock’s question through. “Look, this isn’t something that has just come to me. It’s been growing between us, since Appledore, maybe even sooner. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Sherlock hesitates. “I don’t know what this ‘thing’ is, John. I don’t know what it is I’m feeling.” ‘ _Or why you feel like a safe place I’ve never had before’_

 “Okay, okay, that’s fine.” John says, nodding. “And that’s why I don’t want there to be expectations. No, not just because of you, but because of me, too. I thought I had been in this place before, with Mary, but since meeting you, I realise I hadn’t been, so this is as new to me as it is to you.”

Surely that should make Sherlock feel better, but it increases his anxiety, the acidic burning which roils around in his stomach. Both of them are putting themselves on the line, dipping their toes into unknown waters, and there is a lot resting on getting it right, because John is not wrong, there has most certainly been some sort of connection between them since they met. “I’ve never had a connection with anyone else before, that I can remember.” He says, dismissing his forgotten past with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t know what I was feeling, experiencing. I still don’t know.”

It takes a lot, for him to admit to this confusion, but John just nods, face open. The poisonous anxiety inside him tells him not to admit to any weakness, but John has taught him to face his emotions, and right now, that is all he feels composed of; he is a body of feeling and nothing else, in this moment. He feels lost, and he grasps at the blankets which cover the bed, grounding himself.

John nods, “That’s okay. Obviously. We’re figuring this out together, and meanwhile we’re trying to stop the destruction of our world!” He chuckles slightly, and Sherlock cannot help the slight smile that comes to his face. It does all seem incredibly far-fetched.

John becomes serious once again, but his eyes remained fixed firmly on Sherlock, fond. “It’s all been a hell of a lot, and me jumping on you last night was a mistake. Not the asking, that wasn’t, but the way I said things. I made this seem as if it was to be something based on…” John hesitates, dancing around the words before he eventually just says them. “A sexual relationship. That if we were to make that step, it would be better, when the truth is it would not be. It would just be another good thing. What I really meant was a romantic relationship. An intimacy which is simply the next step in the closeness we already feel. Does that make sense?”

It does, it really does. John, in describing these motions in a step-by-step process, has turned this into something which works for Sherlock’s brain. It is logical, and therefore less daunting. Except for…

“John, I don’t know if I could ever be… sexually intimate with you.” He says, his own tongue as awkward as John’s is in describing physical intimacy. “Not… not after…”

John nods. “It’s fine. Completely. And I’m glad we cleared these things up, I felt like a cumbersome, bumbling idiot last night.” He laughs self-depreciatingly. 

Sherlock is not sure whether he believes him, but John is speaking before he can, leaning forward in his chair, looking up into Sherlock’s face. “Now, that’s how I feel, but how do _you_ feel?”

John’s gaze, his full attention, is on him, and the logical process he had found comfort in is swept away, replaced with that open and unhinged feeling he had before. It is now up to him to come up with something as brilliant as John, but he cannot, he feels held back by lack of ideas, lack of feeling like someone who could _truly_ be in this situation right now. Is this really happening to him? What is this? his disconnection with reality gets worse, his head spinning, and he lets go of the blankets, gripping his scalp; if his hair was long enough, he would pull at that.

“I don’t know!” Sherlock cries out, agitation bubbling over like a pot of boiling water. “I don’t know who I am, John! I don’t even know if I am a person!”

“Sherlock…. That doesn’t make much sense.” John says, leaning back once again, hands trailing over his thighs.

“Nothing makes sense, John!” Sherlock stands, his frustration spewing over and forcing his limbs to move. John remains seated, but he is perched on the edge of his seat, ready to stand if needed. “What am I if not just a being to whom events have happened, are happening, and are apparently destined to happened by the course of _fate_ or some nonsense?! I thought I was in control, but I cannot be sure of that now. And… I don’t know what I can give you! I don’t know what I have apart from all that’s happened to me!” ‘ _No matter how much I want to.’_

There is a thick fog in the air when Sherlock finishes speaking, thick with his exasperation, his shame, and John’s surprise. John is staring at him as if he is seeing something new in him, as if something has dawned to him, and Sherlock suddenly realises that as much as he knows John and can read a lot about him, John is still as astonishing to him now as he had been at first meeting.

For a moment, John closes his eyes, but then they blink open, clear and determined, and he stands, not touching Sherlock, but close enough that Sherlock can make out the dark flecks in John’s pupils.

“It makes more sense, now. Knowing how you coped with your emotions in the past, that you would feel like that makes sense. And I think it is understandable. But…” John reaches for Sherlock’s hands with his own, tentatively asking. Sherlock relents, allowing John’s hands to be clasped in his own. “Sherlock, no, that’s not true. Look, the very fact that you’re worrying about this tells me what kind of person you are. It tells me that you are strong willed- I mean, the fact that you have survived _eighteen years_ of enslavement and are not broken, that you did what you needed to do to protect yourself, tells me that. But you have this concern, and you are adamant that you will not be what you fear, you fear it so much because you are not fully convinced of it, if you were, you would be numb, but you, you are too much of a fighter, too….. _stubborn,_ ” John says the word kindly with a knowing smile on his face, “to let yourself be identified and defined by any other person. And it must have been hard, to have your life dictated to you, even when Magnussen freed you, there was a new identity already given to you. But, so far, you’ve made it your own; you’ve taken his name, the prince of before, and made it _yours;_ you’ve not bowed down and read his biography, and decided it must be your story, no, you have made your own story.”

“What can I offer you?” Sherlock replies, tone wavering, wary of John’s words, of allowing himself to believe. “Surviving day to day, I haven’t anything to offer. And now, I’ve got us both into this situation, the Moriartys know I am alive, and Janine is in my _head!_ And I don’t know what to do! And I hate not knowing! I’ve been a fraud in this game, simply playing the part but Moriarty outmanoeuvred me immediately because he knew I did not have an arsenal, and so he used all I had to manipulate me: my mind, _you-”_   

John frowns. “What? What are you talking about? What do you mean he used me?”

‘ _Damn.’_ Sherlock bites his lip. He hadn’t meant to spill so much. He sighs, relenting, “Moriarty, he threatened me, that if I did not give him the correct location for where the jewel was hidden, he would, in his words, ‘destroy you.’”

John lets out a heavy breath, his jaw tightening, nostrils flaring. “He blackmailed you? With me?”

“Yes!” Sherlock cries. “Because I did not know what to do! All you’ve done is help me, John! And I do not know how to repay the favour. Don’t you see? I’ve always been in danger, in my life, that was the life I had, a non-life, an existence based on whether you would survive another person’s decisions or not. I’ve always been having to protect myself, and I don’t have the arsenal to protect someone else. I don’t know if I am fit to have you, you are pledging yourself to the wrong person-”

“No, _shut up_ Sherlock!” John berates, his tone so scathing that Sherlock finds his mouth closing voluntarily. His blood is thrumming in the pulse point in his neck, and he swallows, trying to steady his breathing. “Stop this, stop this now. You are not a fraud! This is not your fault. You say you cannot be responsible for other people, and yet here you are taking the blame for Moriarty’s actions, and mine. You did not force me to stay! I _chose_ that, because I chose you. In whatever danger, on whatever occasion, I’ll choose you, because you saved me, as much as I saved you. Lords, could you imagine me staying on at Appledore, with a king like Magnussen, cavorting with a man like Moriarty?” when Sherlock shakes his head John nods. “No, neither can I! And you’ve offered me the most exciting way to escape all of that. Now, that is not to say I stay with you only so I can feel that adrenaline rush that this danger brings me, no, I also stay for you. Sherlock, you do not have to be responsible for me! It makes me so incredibly angry that Moriarty used me as blackmail in a situation which came as a big shock to all of us, but you know what? It is a pleasure to be your pressure point! Being blackmail, that’s an honour! And that you have fought so hard to protect me, god…” John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hands, moving closer, so that his forehead is almost touching Sherlock’s neck. “That is the show of what kind of man you are.”

Sherlock is startled to find there is a prickling sensation behind his eyes, and his voice, when he finds it, is hoarse. “John….”

John shushes him, moving one hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck. “You do not have to carry the burden of all this on your shoulders. Let me carry some. Let me protect you, too.”

“You’re the first person to make an effort to see _me_.” Sherlock admits, eyes closed as John brings their foreheads together gently. “I don’t know what to do with all that means to me, sometimes. Struggle with the meaning, with the spending of that currency.” It is a poor explanation, but John’s words have taken that acidic tang in his stomach, and soothed it, subdued it. It lies, dormant, and Sherlock knows its head will rear once again in the future, but for now, it is enough.

“It’s okay, it’s all okay. Once we are out of all of this, there will be time for you to really discover what you like. And we’ll go from there. No one said this would be easy, and no one said you’d find your path and walk it straight away. No, it’s a long journey, but you’ll get there, and when you do, you’ll appreciate the journey even more. And know this,” And then, then John edges ever closer, his lips almost touching Sherlock’s. “I will still be by your side. Because I know you, Sherlock, really I do, and I’ll know you more and more as we go.”

Then, very gently, and waiting until Sherlock gives his nod of consent, John brings their lips together in a kiss. For this, Sherlock does not need to process his emotions to try and understand. This time, he knows exactly what he is feeling.

It is that deep-seated, glowing embers warmth combined with the powerful strike of a lightning bolt, making it at once something surprising and comforting, welcoming as well as different. He does not need to decide whether that is a good or bad thing to feel, he knows exactly how right it feels, how the feeling seems to travel down throughout his whole body, encapsulating him in its light for however long the kiss lasts.

And when they break off, he feels no shame in the tears that roll down his cheeks, a testament to the journey John tells him he is on, and that he understands now that it is a journey, and not a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Any kudos or comments would be greatly appreciated if you are willing to give them. I'm not having a particularly great time at the moment, and so it would be nice to hear from more readers, if you are so inclined, but of course, I do not blame you for not helping out a total stranger. 
> 
> See you on Friday for Chapter Twenty.


	20. The Seed of Suspicion

Sherlock wakes to a surrounding warmth, arms which hold his body, soft breath on the back of his neck. For a second, he panics, thinking he is back in a castle more prison than residence, in the arms of monster masquerading as a man, but then the events of the day come back to him, and he recognises the arms as John’s, the pressure against him as the man’s strong body.

The sensations, the stimuli, he saves it all into John’s room in his mind palace, now a shrine to the man. He takes these feelings, such as the firm hold of John’s hand in his own, the man’s arm wrapped around his body, and uses it as concrete, firmly encasing the memories of Magnussen’s hands all over him not only underneath the floorboards, but underneath the very foundations of his mind palace. There they are unreachable, untouchable.

He sighs, eyes flickering open for only a moment, only to register the gathering darkness outside of the dormer window in their little attic room; they must have slept through the afternoon.

He lets his eyes flutter shut again, close to giving in to the beckoning arms of sleep, when suddenly he is captured by a familiar overwhelming pressure. There is a ringing in his ears, and all he can think is, ‘here we go again.’

Janine pushes and pushes, insistent and demanding. Sherlock attempts to mentally roll his eyes at her, and it gives him an idea.

‘ _Janine?_ ’ He shouts in his mind. ‘ _Stop this!’_

It seems as if the storm seems to ebb for a moment, before it kicks off again at full force. Sherlock shouts for her again, but Janine either cannot hear him or is ignoring him, as she continues to scrape at the walls inside his mind.

First idea scarpered, Sherlock decides to take an offensive position, rather than a defensive. He conjures a memory, of a leafy canopy, leaves in multifarious hues of greens. They had offered him peace, something to focus on, in the midst of a particularly miserable time under the ownership of a man who took mistreating his slaves as a rule. He takes this memory and slams it to the front of his mind, using the data he had gathered then to block out anything else.

_‘Interesting_!’ A feminine voice says, and Sherlock knows it must be Janine, but she does not sound irritated by this change, rather caught up by the importance of it happening. ‘ _This type of power does not come to an ordinary person. You are the only person who has ever been able to fight against me. This sort of power, it runs in the blood. You might want to think on what it is doing in yours.’_

_‘What? What does that mean?_ ’  Sherlock shouts, but she is pulling away. Something grabs at Sherlock, then, something born of anger and frustration; that he has hardly any cold hard solid facts when it comes to the Moriartys eggs him on to pursue Janine. John’s belief in him encourages him to travel down a mental path, into her head, and he knows barely how he is doing it, only that he catches up to her, nudging into her brain. She mentally seems to jump, her walls rising up, but her ability to talk to him remains.

_‘Oh’_ , she says, ‘ _Hello.’_

‘ _What did you mean?’_ Sherlock demands. ‘ _What is it that you’re trying to get me to realise?’_

Janine mentally sighs. ‘ _James hasn’t wanted to tell you, he wants you to figure it out yourself. All I want you to know is, is that the jewel belongs with us. It is ours, our right is to it. That is what is important here!’_

Then, she abruptly pushes him out of her head, and Sherlock scrambles for a moment, suspended in an ether of no man’s land. He gasps, eyes flying open as he scrambles upright on the bed, breathing heavily, running a hand over his stubbly hair. John, woken by Sherlock’s manic movements, is awake in an instant, sitting up himself and holding his hands out to try and help Sherlock.

“Sherlock? What is it? What’s wrong?” He asks.

Sherlock places his head in his hand, elbow balancing on his knee, frowning hard. Some of the things Janine had said, had alluded to…. No, that cannot make sense. Unless…

He needs to think. What she could be alluding to will turn this entire situation _once again_ on its head; he has only just gained control over himself, he cannot let it slip once again. He feels as if he is walking on a ground which is constantly shifting, turning, changing, and he is barely able to keep his footing.

“Janine.” He says to John, looking to the man. “But I managed to push her out, and….” He hesitates. Should he mention to John what he thinks might be hidden under Janine’s obscure words? He is split; part of him thinks he should, but he has no solid evidence yet, apart from the words of those who might, at this point, seek to manipulate him, so he bites his tongue. Once he knows more, then he will let John in on what he wonders Janine’s words mean. “…Pursue her into her own mind.”

John blinks, still bleary eyed from sleep. “Hang on? You managed to get into her mind?”                                                                              

* * *

 

“Well how did you do that?” Anthea asks, pacing in front of Sherlock and John, who sit close together on the sofa in Irene’s front parlour. Night has well and truly fallen, and Irene has gone off in search of some food and drink for them. Sherlock finds himself parched.

“I hid my memories from her. She was most likely trying to find out where we are and what we’re doing, so I forced an old memory on her, blocked everything else out. She left after that, but I tried to pursue, and it worked.” Sherlock explains with a shrug. He refrains from mentioning Janine’s words to him, which have left him with a lingering sense of foreshadowing, as if her simple and enigmatic words are but a prelude to something much bigger. But what? He needs to think, the serious and massive implications of all that is happening threatening to steal his breath from his lungs.

“I’ve never heard of anyone being able to do that before…. was it easy to do?” Anthea asks, her eyes alight.

“Not easy, but…. Natural enough.” Sherlock replies, closing his eyes for a moment. Bile rises in his throat. From everyone else’s reaction, this is obviously something he shouldn’t be able to do, and yet he can. So why? Why him? Why another drastic change, another thing needing to be explained to him?

“That gives me an idea…Irene, my contact, has he left already?” Anthea says.

Irene, who is entering the room with a tray carrying plates of food, gestures behind her with a flick of her head. “He is saddling his horse up now.”

“I will write to Mycroft with this development, get his view on it.” Anthea says, grabbing some paper and a quill from the bureau and dashing out of the room. Irene watches her go with raised eyebrows, before he turns back to Sherlock and John. She takes in their closeness, the way their thighs touch, John’s fingers lightly balanced on Sherlock’s palm where it rests, upwards, on his thigh. A mischievous grin comes to her face.

“I see the double bed was a correct assumption.”

She places the tray down on the small table in front of them, watching as both men squirm under her gaze.

“I will leave you two to it.” She says, and she winks at Sherlock, who does not meet her eye. She leaves with a swish of the fabric of her dress, door clicking shut behind her.

John lets out a sigh, body crumpling a bit as the breath leaves him. His fingers twitch, playing with Sherlock’s, until they wrap around his so that he holds Sherlock’s hand in his own. John’s chaffed and rough hand in his feels comfortable, a grounding point to which he can moor himself.

The two men sit in silence for a while, their hands conjoined. With his other, John picks up a slice of bread, biting off half of it and giving the rest to Sherlock, who takes it, chewing slowly, barely concentrating on what he is eating, mind whirring, processing the visitor it has had, as well as its own trip abroad.

There is something significant, he knows, in what Janine has hinted at, seemingly stained his clear view with, a clear view he had only gained a few hours previous. John’s words had been a balm, as soothing as the salves the man carries for wounds and injuries, and for Janine to attempt to try and rip open that newly cared for wound now is too much. Quite frankly, it is too annoying, like a wasp pestering for a saccharine apple. All Sherlock wants to do is flick his hand and have it fly away, but it is, unfortunately, not as easy as that, rather a nest of wasps, rather than a singular one. This pest will not go away easily.

He wonders, were he not so exhausted from their long journey since Appledore, and the emotional upheaval of the day, whether he would be more intrigued, feel that exciting pull he had first felt around Moriarty, when the man had first taken him. It is still there, he knows, that strange attraction, but there are other aspects of his life, what he can actually call a life now, as John had told him, that he must think about; he can no longer let himself be drawn to Moriarty and risk it all, even his life. No, now he has things worth living for, worth fighting for. Primarily John, and all the man represents; hope. Hope for more, more than he has ever been, something undefined, not seen yet by Dartoyle, not preordained by James and Janine Moriarty. No, John is his own man, unperturbed by those who have sought to influence Sherlock thus far. John, in his own, indirect way, is the greatest influence on Sherlock’s life, and he will gladly follow the man where he leads.

And so, he allows himself an evening to eat food lazily on the couch with John, their hands conjoined, allows himself to place his head on John’s shoulder, knowing as he does, that the curiosity will not stop pestering, and he will respond to its call.

“How do you suppose you can do it? Block Janine out and then follow her into her own mind?” John asks, rather unhelpfully.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock mutters. “And, I’d rather not think about it, now. Please, John, can we just….?” He trails off, keeping his head firmly on John’s shoulder to avoid eye contact.

He can feel John’s nod and the affirmative noise the man makes against his cheekbone. “Yeah, of course, that’s fine, yeah.” There is an undertone to the man’s voice, however, that speaks of a deeper concern, and Sherlock decides he would very much like to steer them both away from the subject of Janine, and the implications that has upon them. Now, he wants to be selfish, and he can be, in spending some time with John in the presence of each other’s company. It should not be such a big occasion, they have spent a lot of time alone together since first meeting, but there is a definitive change, and it makes Sherlock eager for some time with John in which there is nothing life threatening or earth shattering to discuss.                                                                              

* * *

 

Janine sighs, slouching down into the nearest chair. Well, that went well.

She stretches out her neck, rolling her head around, dispelling the last dredges of Sherlock’s presence from her mind, making it clean again. The seed of suspicion has been planted, and the man has obviously taken the bait, pursuing her like that, and demonstrating to himself in the meanwhile what exactly he can do. Now, they must wait for him to make the connection, and she is sure that once he does, he will be in contact once again.

There is one thing she is set on doing, however, in spite of James’s ridiculous insistence that they not do so. Luck comes her way, for no sooner has she thought of the man, he himself strides in behind her brother, who looks irritated and antsy, like a dog that has not yet been fed. Moran stands at the opening of their tent as James flounces in, pouring himself a goblet of wine and sitting in the chair opposite Janine’s.

“Well?” She asks him.

“Well nothing!” James replies, swigging his wine. “It is hard to keep up sustained torture when you are on the move during daylight hours! What the man lacks in cleverness he makes up for in stubbornness! All I have learnt is all we already knew! He works for Mycroft, and was informing him of our plans, yes, so we are most likely to expect Mycroft to have prepared his troops for battle. Not that Charles seems to care, man is too arrogant for his own good, I hate it! Be clever and sly not pig-headed and bullish!”

“Well never fear, brother.” Janine replies, a smug smile playing at her lips. “For the key to our plan is very much intrigued by what I have let on to him about. It is only a matter of time before he figures it all out.”

James raises his eyebrows and his goblet to Janine in praise. “Well done, sister. It is falling into place, all of it, although some of the pieces in the wrong order…”

“I am sending Moran after them.” Janine announces. “Call it an insurance policy.”

James sighs, eyes flickering over to his right-hand man, a finger tapping at the rim of his goblet. “I didn’t want to have to force him into it, I wanted him to come of his own steam….”

“And he still will.” Janine insists. “But let us send Moran to nudge him, before the battle is underway. As I said, an insurance policy, to make sure the ball is rolling. Besides, Sherlock might discover more than he thought might come naturally…” she says pointedly with a raised eyebrow. James looks to her, his eyes narrowed, before they widen and his mouth makes an almost comical ‘O’ shape.

“I see, I see, sister…. Yes, alright, Moran will go!” He turns, jumping from his chair, to man in question, who has stood stock still, face barely moving at mention of him. “But do not kill any one of his little friends! I do not want him turned against us! Just…. scare him a little, egg him on, bring action out of your threat.”

Moran nods, bowing his head. “Of course, my lord. I will do as you ask.”

James nods, and he saunters past, goblet of wine still in hand, to the opening of the tent. He turns before he leaves, however, and says, “Charles keeps a spare shirt of Sherlock’s with his belongings. I will fetch it. You can use that to scent him.”

And with the flap of the tent door, he is gone.                                                                                 

* * *

 

John tries to relax his shoulders as he and Sherlock finish off their food, but no matter what he does, they keep bunching up, his worries filling in the space there and tensing his muscles. He feels conflicted, like the moment before you jump from a great height, terror fighting against a swooping rush of adrenaline. He is at once concerned and overjoyed, for Sherlock had understood what he had said last night and accepted it, gladly. John had been scared for him, deep down, about how the man was feeling, scared Sherlock might lose himself in all that was going on and no longer know how to deal with anything expect the immediate threat of danger which is right in front of them, and chasing at their heels. But Sherlock had taken his words gladly, in the end, like a healing salve, and John thanks his lucky stars that he has been given a second chance at making the most of the natural connection between them. He only hopes this new development with Janine will not derail them once again.

Really, though, he is more concerned about how that is happening right now, for, although he is not trying to show it, he is extremely confused about how Sherlock was apparently able to follow Janine into her mind. It sounds like it could be a…. communication system of sorts? Something unchartered, something John cannot help him with. He has scoured his mind, thinking hard on if he has read about this in any medical texts, but as far as he can remember, he has not. So, what he can do to help directly with _that_ , he is not sure, and so therefore, he is going to do _what he can,_ and provide Sherlock with comfort, a safe place to turn to that the man has never had before.

The feel of Sherlock’s head against his shoulder feels right. Natural. The other man’s hand slotting into his as if it was always meant to be there. And whilst John was honest, when he said he does not mind at all if they are never intimate to the most extreme degree, he wants to clear up with Sherlock what he feels he is up to, and what he is not.

“So, that umm…” he clears his throat, scrambling for the right words. “That kiss, earlier, that was… that was good, yes?”

John winces. Very smooth, Watson, very smooth.

Sherlock shifts his head to look up at John, brow furrowed. “Yes… yes, it was good.”

John nods. “So, it’d be okay if we were to do that again?”

Sherlock sighs, sitting up properly to look at John. “John, what are you trying to say?”

John sighs, chuckling lightly at himself under his breath. “I just want to be sure, what you feel comfortable with doing. I know this is new, for both of us, and that there are things you don’t want to do and _that’s fine,_ but I wanted to be clear before we go any further, on what you don’t want.”

Sherlock nods, his eyes wandering absentmindedly around the room. “I am not sure I know what I do want. I don’t know what there is, I haven’t ever had a template of a close relationship to base my own personal wants on. So, how can I know, apart from not what Magnussen did?” He swallows, eyes fixing on a certain point for a moment, before they turn back to John’s, sharp and sincere.

John nods. That makes sense; he had a feeling he might have to be the one to take the lead on exploring the different streets they can now walk down together. It does not bother him; he is glad it is him, and not Charles Magnussen.

“That’s seems logical enough to me. It’s all about experience. You have to find out what you like, and what you do not. Now, we already know you liked the kissing, yes?”

Sherlock nods, a flush of pink coming to his cheeks which makes John stifle a chuckle; it is rather endearing.

“Okay, good, and you also seem to like the hand holding and you didn’t mind me holding you in bed, earlier?”

“No,” Sherlock confesses. “It was different from Magnussen, it was…”

“Good?” John suggests with a grin, which Sherlock returns with his own.

“Yes. Good.”

“Okay.” John nods. “So, from this point onwards, we just need to see how it goes. We don’t have to force anything.”

Sherlock nods, his eyes flickering all over John’s face for a second before he hesitantly leans forward, capturing John’s lips in a gentle kiss. When they break apart, he keeps their foreheads touching, speaking words which sound like a secret.

“This doesn’t feel real.”

“Well, if you need a reminder, then look to me. Look to me, and know that I chose you, for who you are. And I am by your side, because of the choices both of us made.” John says, tone affirmative, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s.                                                                                    

* * *

 

Sherlock lets his forehead rest against John for a long while after the man stops talking, simply enjoying the other man’s presence in a way he hasn’t been able to before. Then John pulls away, and there is a mischievous smile on his face. “Actually, look on this as an experiment! You like collecting data, and all that, well this could be a good way to collect information!”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows, perplexed. Oh, joking, John is joking! Sherlock decides he will serve the man some of his own medicine.

“How do you know I haven’t already been conducting my own experiment?” He deadpans. “Maybe this was all a ruse.”

John’s head tilts backwards, his face crumpling as he suddenly laughs out loud, eyes filling with tears of mirth. Sherlock feels himself reel back a little in surprise from John’s reaction, but soon finds himself smiling at John’s reaction. He did that, he made John laugh like this. those burning embers in his stomach are alight, burning furiously. That feeling, what is it? Is it the word people like to use, when they are fond of another person…? Love, is it?  

He is not sure, he does not know what love means, but unlike the blind panic he had felt earlier, about his ignorance, in this matter he knows he can explore without worry. John may have been joking about this being an experiment, but Sherlock is genuinely grateful he has this space to decide, to not rush a decision. In other matters, he is not so lucky.

Whatever the burning fire inside him is, it is slow and safe, a fire which burns away for hours in a fireplace, not the kind that fells a building in a matter of minutes. He can let it burn without having to define the movements of the flames, all he knows is, it feels safe.                                                                                             

* * *

 

Sherlock tracks the movement of the moon through the dormer window, body relaxed but his mind whirring.

He cannot put it off any longer, he has to do something to address the questions that have been bothering him all day. Ignoring up to this point had been selfish, albeit needed; spending the evening with John, enjoying each other’s company, had, despite the circumstances, been the most relaxed he has ever felt. But now, he wonders if his body is withholding sleep until he finally gives in and does something about the matter at hand.

Very slowly and carefully he detangles himself from John’s arms, rising from the bed and padding over to the table, sitting down in the chair, wincing when it creaks. He looks to John, but the man just mumbles and turns over before letting out a soft snore.

He reaches down for his backpack, which rests with John’s under the table, and pulls out his biography and his notes on the Moriarty Jewels. Settling them out on the table, he sighs heavily, fingers hesitating at the cover of his biography. He is not here to read, to have it define him, but it is still a significant event, for him to read it, even if it is for a different purpose.  

It is time for him to take the initiative on this, to not dance around the matter without the guts to deal with it. Clear lines marking who he is will help him to feel grounded, so that is exactly what he will do.

Ignoring the slight tremble in his fingers, Sherlock opens to the front page of his biography.                                                                                 

* * *

 

Dawn is breaking, and Sherlock has not moved. He had been right, to think to take the initiative in this matter, for what he has learnt might have possibly floored him, had it been told to him before John could snap him out of the spiral he was falling down previously.

As it is, he feels more a sensation of fullness, of something being complete. What he has discovered fills in gaps in the brickwork, completing the structure of the relationship between himself and the Moriarty family. Part of him is revolted, part of him is relieved. Mostly, however, he is understanding what it is to be a man like James Moriarty, to make decisions so big they could turn the whole world upside down. For now, he must make a decision, the outcome of which he will have to face with grim acceptance. He supposes fate, with its cruel hand, has made him the decider of life or death; it is a position be chooses begrudgingly, no matter how neatly the pieces have fallen into place.

He looses himself to his thoughts, to his planning, keeping his mind clear of anything but logical, rational reasoning. He does not hear John wake.                                                                                      

* * *

 

John wakes to bright sunshine, hitting his face like a spotlight, and he lifts a lazy hand to block it, grumbling. As consciousness returns, he stretches his limbs out, expecting to feel another warm and sleepy body next to his, but instead he feels the sheets, cold and discarded.

Eyes shooting open he raises his head, looking around for Sherlock. His heart is beating frantically in his chest, but when he spots Sherlock, sat at the table, he relaxes, and forces his heart to stop beating at a staccato beat.

“Sherlock.” He mumbles, voice thick with sleep. He clears his throat, rising himself up to a kneeling position on the bed. “You okay?”

Sherlock turns, his eyes wide but shuttered, his face passive. He nods. “Yes. Just… thinking things over.”

John stands, stretching out his sore limbs, wounded shoulder twinging. He pads over to Sherlock, standing next to the man, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Surely we will hear from Mycroft today? We’ve been here long enough. Any longer and Magnussen will have made it to the battlefield already.”

Sherlock nods. “Yes. We will leave today even if we haven’t heard from Mycroft. We cannot stall any longer.”

The decisiveness in his tone takes John aback; it is a side of Sherlock which peeps out every so often. The man has been decisive, despite what he thinks, since John has known him, but this bold sincerity is new, and John likes it. It must be coming from a place of agitation, for Sherlock seems to be shaking with some pent-up energy, and he stands suddenly, moving to the dormer window, looking out into the early morning. Something must catch his eye, for he stiffens, leaning forwards slightly. John comes to join him at the window, peering down into the outside himself. He understands, when he sees, why Sherlock’s attention had been caught.

From a cart in the street below, shabbily dressed individuals are being led into the building opposite. Chains around their wrists and ankles link them to each other in a chain of human misery. Oh yes, the slave market; John had forgotten about its presence, but as he looks from the scene below them to Sherlock’s spooked face, he feels embarrassed about his forgetting, as if he isn’t any better than those who pass on the street below, ignoring what is happening across from them.

Sherlock wets his lip, his words low and contemplative. “Maybe, if we ever make it to Musgrave Palace and get out of this whole mess, and I have any sway as a prince, then I could try and make the steps to abolish slavery?”

John’s chests bursts with feeling, and he smiles. “Yes. I think you could do that. I think you could do anything.” Truly, he does. Sherlock will be unstoppable, once this ‘mess’, as Sherlock had called it, is over.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, looking to John with put-upon annoyance. “ _John.”_

John smiles, nudging him with his elbow. His smile fades, however, as he sees Sherlock turn pensive once again, his eyes narrowing, staring down at the street once again, hands tapping out a tuneless rhythm on the windowsill.

“You okay?” John asks, tone careful, reverent.

Sherlock hums, nodding. “It reminds me how far I’ve come.” He says, rather enigmatically, and John hums and nods in reply, leaving the man to his thoughts.                                                                               

* * *

 

“My informants tell me Magnussen’s army shall reach Saint Bartholomew’s Plain within the next day. By those standards, battle should begin morning, the day after tomorrow.” Irene relates to John and Sherlock once they have joined her in the study, later in the day, after hours of pacing and waiting and wondering. Sherlock has been bursting at the seams to do something, but Anthea has been insistent they wait for Mycroft’s letter before moving on. He knows it is for the best, that their movements be plotted by the far-off allies, but what he believes to have learnt pushes adrenaline through his veins, puts a shaking in his fingers.

John nods. “Hmm, suppose there is no point in starting a battle just before sunset.”

“News, I’ve got news!” Anthea announces, striding into the parlour, open letter in hand.

“Ah, finally!” John says, standing and putting his hands on his hips, letting out a long breath.

“Mycroft relents, he will let you go to the jewel, Sherlock, although reluctantly.” Anthea says, eyebrows raised as she looks down at the letter. “I cannot emphasise enough _how_ reluctantly.” She mutters under her breath, which Sherlock ignores. “Riders will meet us, tomorrow evening, with the sword, at the village which adjoins the Reichenbach Falls and the site of the tomb. That should give you time to destroy it, before the battle begins the following morning. That way, hopefully, the Moriartys will not be able to use their secret weapon, and the advantage of time that Mycroft has will lead to a defeat over Magnussen.”

Sherlock and John nod. So far, so good.

Anthea pauses, lips pursed. She looks to Sherlock, eyes kind. “Now, Sherlock, this next bit…”

Sherlock nods. “Just say it.”

Anthea gives him a small, tight-lipped smile. “Mycroft requests that if you can, you try and get in contact with James Moriarty. Through your mind.”

“Eh?” John blinks, shifting from foot to foot. “Can he do that? I thought it was only Janine?”

Anthea hesitates, but Sherlock answers for her. “It is less to do with Janine herself and more about the magic that runs through her, which also runs through James Moriarty. So, in theory, if I can get in contact with her-”

“You can get in contact with James.” John nods, catching on.

“Mycroft, he wants you to give Moriarty a location, a bluff location, of where the jewel is. The idea is to lead him to this location and detain him. Janine won’t come, she’ll stay with the army, Mycroft is sure. That way, once the jewel is destroyed, they won’t attempt to try anything.

“Hang on, so we’re going to admit to him we lied about the location? Won’t that, I don’t know, make them angry? Make them do something out of that anger?” John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not if _I’m_ telling him.”

“And Mycroft predicts Janine will be trying to save her strength before the battle.” Anthea adds.

John gives him a long look, his brow creased. Sherlock meets his eye for a moment before looking back at Anthea. He keeps his face passive, determined, hoping John can read nothing from it. Now is not the time to tell John what he is almost certain he has learnt.

“He wants you to tell him to go to a place called Baskerville. Have you heard of it? It’s the previous site of the old Moriarty homestead, their former prison turned home, then of course they were exiled by your father… but yes, Mycroft wants you to send them there. They will be meet by deputy captain of the guard Sally Donovan and her troop. They are riding for Baskerville now.”

This plan, to the larger members of their party, must seem appropriate, logical; drawing Moriarty away from the battle, away from the jewel, having him cornered, powerless. But Sherlock knows, from that natural gut feeling, that I cannot go that way, that he needs to speak to Moriarty, in person. He needs to draw Moriarty to himself. Really, he needs him to come to the jewel.

A plan starts to hatch in his brain, sprouting legs which tumble out and crawl into the pieces of the puzzle that were missing before.

He turns to Anthea. “I’ll do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos following the comment I added to my last chapter- I greatly appreciate the support people have given, and I cannot thank you all enough. 
> 
> In thanks, I will post the next chapter tomorrow (Saturday), so see you then.


	21. Wolfish Behaviour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence and minor character death

Searching out for James Moriarty is like wading through swathes of fabric, soft and thick and plush. It reminds Sherlock of Moriarty’s chambers in Appledore Castle; laden with curtains and hangings. He feels as if he is pushing past those now as he attempts to find the man himself, these furnishings obviously the defences he leaves around his mind, to keep out intruders like himself. It seems, however, as if he is happy to let Sherlock in, for it is not long after he pulls back a red velvet curtain that he finds the man, lounging on a chaise longue. 

He looks to Sherlock in delight, face beaming. “Sherlock! It’s so lovely to see you my dear!”

His image comes almost as a caricature, there is an artificial quality around the edges, as if he is seeing a marionette version of the man. The longer Sherlock looks, the longer Moriarty’s visage flickers around the edge, his arms phasing in and out. Sherlock realises this scene of decadence that appears before him is just as protective as his own mental block against Janine; Sherlock cannot see anything the man does not want him to.

“How can I help you?” Moriarty asks. A chair is conjured out of nowhere, and he gestures for Sherlock to take a seat. Sherlock does not comply.

“I’ve come to ask you to meet me.”

Moriarty’s head pops backwards like a small bird awaiting food. “Have you? _Really?_ Big brother letting that happen, is he?”

“Not quite, no.” Sherlock admits. “They want me to send you to Baskerville. To the family pile.”

Moriarty’s eyes widen comically. “Oh! I see. I suppose I will be met with an armed guard, who will ever so kindly arrest me?”

Sherlock inclines his head in agreement. Moriarty stands, then, body flickering as he approaches. His flat eyes are giving the image of excitement. “But you’re not going to tell me that are you?”

“No.” Sherlock replies, and he makes sure his tone is as cold as possible. “And I think you know why.”

Moriarty raises an eyebrow, folding his arms and bringing his hand up so that his thumb taps against his chin, pretending to think hard. “Oh, I do?”

“Yes.” Sherlock says. “And that is why I’m lying to them, telling them you will come to Baskerville. When really, you will meet me somewhere else.”

Now Moriarty genuinely looks confused. “Yes. At Saint Bartholomew’s Plain?”

Sherlock fights to keep the smirk off his face. “No. That is not where the jewel is.”

Moriarty’s mouth falls open, and his body and the surroundings begin to flicker. The light drops, turning red, until all Sherlock can see of Moriarty are the angry lines that have not been filled in by the gathering darkness. “You lied to me!”

Sherlock nods.

“ _How?”_

Sherlock shrugs. “You cannot interrogate a dead man.”

Moriarty’s mouth widens even more, and he lets out a scoffing laugh, clapping his hands together. “Oh, _very good! Very, very good!_ I should have had more faith in you! Magnussen certainly should have, too! Oh, you should see him, Sherlock! We stopped by a small village, yesterday, pillaged it, but he seemed to take a liking in a young man who looked just like you!”

“Enough!” Sherlock cries, silencing the man. He does not want to hear about Magnussen, does not want any reminders of him to derail him now. “I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work, so stop it!”

Moriarty beams. “Oh, it did work! I can see you are much more determined, despite everything. So stubborn!” Sherlock tries to school his face, despite Moriarty’s evaluation of him hitting too close to John’s; it is not a pleasant coincidence. “So, go on then, tell me where the jewel _actually_ is!” The man might be mocking in tone, but the red light around them has grown deeper, spreading out like a blood stain; he is angry, and perhaps a little embarrassed, if his persona of jovial power is anything to go by.

“I want you to meet me at Sherlock Holmes’s grave, at the Reichenbach Falls. Tomorrow evening, if you could?”

Moriarty considers this. “Thursday morning, just before the battle begins.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “The evening before.”

“The morning of.” Moriarty insists. Sherlock rolls his eyes, giving in.

“Fine. The evening before. But be there.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Sherlock, I will be.” Moriarty says, tone low and suddenly very serious. He goes to turn away, but must remember something, for he turns around, face scrunched up, teeth bared. “Oh, one last thing. Actually, this has worked out quite well I suppose…” he mutters.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

Moriarty sighs. “Don’t think you’ll have gotten away with your little lie without punishment, my dear. You or your little doctor.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock demands, the mention of John brining a sick feeling to his stomach.

Moriarty simply smiles. “I’d keep a weather eye out if I were you. I’ve heard rumours of wolves in the Reichenbach parts.”

Sherlock goes to reply, but the man is suddenly disintegrating, the space around them dispelling and leaving a pitch-black nothingness in its place.

“I will be seeing you very soon, Sherlock.” Moriarty says, and then he is gone, broken into a thousand pieces.                                                                                

* * *

 

Sherlock opens his eyes, returning to the strangely calm and solid surroundings of Irene’s front parlour. John is sat by his side, Anthea and Irene stood in front of them.

“Well?” Anthea asks.

Sherlock swallows, choking on his lie. “He’ll come.” ‘ _But not where you want him to be. This is on my terms.’_

“Excellent! Truly!” Anthea says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now, let us go! We will have to ride through the night, but if it gets us there, it gets us there. You two gather your things, I will send a quick reply confirming our plans.”

Sherlock does not meet her eye as she nods her thanks at him and leaves the room. He thinks that if he were like Anthea, and had been stuck with his family for all his life, he would feel a bit more guilty about his deception, but as it stands, the only person to whom he feels slight guilt at lying to, is John. He knows, in his gut, that he must meet Moriarty at his tomb, where the jewel is; maybe, he scoffs, this is one of those foreseen events, that Dartoyle can see, and that is why he feels so strongly. It is more a matter of personal satisfaction, he tries to tell himself. Closure.

He is not sure when, or _if,_ he should tell John. He probably should, but he knows John will worry, and want to come with him, and the last thing Sherlock wants is John in Moriarty’s path. John had told him Sherlock did not need to protect him, but he will do, if he _wants_ to. And in this case, he does. It is what you do for the person you…whatever it is, isn’t it?                                                                                   

* * *

 

“Good luck. I will be expecting my invite to the palace, a thanks for my help in your quest!” Irene says, kissing a reluctant John’s cheek. Sherlock cannot tell whether she is joking or not. He has a feeling she isn’t.

She kisses Sherlock’s cheek, lingering by his ear long enough to say. “Getting rid of James Moriarty would be thanks enough, for all of us.”

Irene Adler is an enigmatic woman, unreadable, but here she has let slip her own dislike for James Moriarty, and Sherlock is suddenly sure of her loyalty to their cause. Sherlock nods, and she pulls back, turning to Anthea, her usual flourish back in place.  

“Be safe, lover!” She says, and without warning, she grabs Anthea’s face in her hands and kisses her passionately, Anthea’s back bending as she melts into the kiss.

John glances Sherlock’s way, and Sherlock looks back to him, both men feeling incredibly awkward as the kiss stretches longer and longer. John clears his throat, which does nothing to deter the two women from deepening their kiss.

Finally, Irene pulls away, looking extremely satisfied. Anthea catches her breath, regaining her balance. She scowls at Irene, but is a fond scowl, born of intimacy. Sherlock knows he and John have shared that look.

“Yes, I will endeavour to keep myself alive, just for you Irene.” Anthea says, and Irene smirks, but a hand rubs Anthea shoulder briefly before she steps away.

“Go, the lot of you! Go and save the world!”                                                                                         

* * *

 

They ride, faster than they have before. The day and a half they had spent at Irene’s may have dragged and been an agonising wait, but it has filled them with a new vigour, and their horses are well rested, so the ground passes below them in a flurry, as they head for their final destination.

The sun is moving in the sky, its route determining the change of midday into afternoon, when they finally stop for a proper rest.

“We’ll take half an hour.” Anthea says, jumping from her horse and bending her stiff legs. “Get something to eat. There’s a stream over there, I will refill our water skins.”

She heads off, and John helps Sherlock off his horse, hands staying on his hips once Sherlock is down. They are in a clearing, surrounded by sparse woodland. The ground here looks dry, almost singed, not as plush as the areas around The Border. When Sherlock stamps his feet as he stretches his legs out, dust and detritus rises from the earth.

“It may be that this time tomorrow, the battle will be won and we will finally be free of all this.” John remarks, hands stroking Sherlock’s hips.

“Free…” Sherlock mutters, putting his arms around John’s neck. Freedom. Something he has never felt. Be it from chains, from Magnussen, from the pressure to fulfil the legacy of who he long ago was, and now from Moriarty… he hopes he might live to experience freedom. Something tight constricts his chest.

“You been feeling okay?” John asks casually, no pressure for a thorough answer.

Sherlock thinks on it. Since his confession to John, two days ago, and what he has discovered about himself concerning the Moriartys, he has been set upon by a wave of calm. Where before there had been choppy water, he feels as if he is paddling comfortably in the shallow shores. He understands things, now, better than he had before. Lines have been drawn in the sand. But there is a shark waiting for him, waiting for its prey. Something big, something potentially life-threatening. John cannot know, not yet; he’d only try to jump in the water, too, and save him. No, he will give no warning, not yet, not until the shark’s teeth are chomping at his feet.

“Yes. Much better.” He says, looking at John.

“I suppose your brother, he will be alright with you and I….. you know.” John says, indicating between them with a finger. “You being a prince, I being a commoner, in the public eye it might…”

John is trying to distract him, Sherlock knows, and it works, for he scoffs, “Like I’d listen to him anyway, if he were to try and stop us. He does not know me, and I don’t care whether a _prince_ shouldn’t date a commoner, I don’t see it being a title I’ll use, not plainly like that.”

John smirks. “He’s not going to know what’s hit him when he meets you…”

Sherlock frowns. “I’m not going to hit him, John.”

John laughs, hands moving from Sherlock’s hips to his waist. He pulls Sherlock closer, kissing him gently. “No, but if he won’t accept us, I might. Regent or not.”

Sherlock hums his approval, a smile coming to his lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this touching? Two little lovebirds.”

John and Sherlock break apart and turn around as Sebastian Moran approaches them from out of the woodland, a smirk on his face. John unsheathes his sword, stepping slightly in front of Sherlock.

“The _hell_ are you doing here?” He asks as Moran comes ever closer. He stops just before the tip of John’s sword, not at all worried about the blade in front of him. He is contemplating them both, head tipping to the side.

“Giving you a warning.” Moran says, looking at Sherlock. “Not going to make this too easy for you now.”

Sherlock remembers Moriarty’s words of the previous day: d _on’t think you’ll have gotten away with your little lie without punishment._ Ah, so Moran must be the bringer of justice, fair play. Hardly, he thinks, curling his lip.

“Right, so, how are you going to do that without any weapon?” John asks, tightening the grip on his sword. He is correct, Moran has no weapons on him. That they can see, anyway.

The man smiles, pearly whites showing. Strangely, his canine teeth jut out, overly large compared to his other teeth, as if they do not fit into his mouth. A deep rumble comes from deep within his chest, and his neck cricks as he turns it side to side. “Like this.”

Both men are rooted to the spot as Moran transfigures in front of them. His stubbly blonde hair seems to spread over his entire body, under his clothing, covering every inch. His shoulders broaden, as do his hips, forcing him onto all fours. His clothing is ripped off him, splitting at the seams as his body grows too large to contain. Paws manufacture themselves from his hands and feet, his fingers melding together, sharp claws bursting through their fur covering. His face is the most disturbing transformation, for as his snout extends, a hound-like nose forming, and his ears flatten to the side of his head, new ones sprouting higher on his head, his eyes remain the same, their intensity still Moran’s intensity, no matter how they narrow to fit his now wolfish body.

Sherlock understands what Moriarty meant by wolves in these parts, now.

John swears, and Sherlock unsheathes his own sword from where it is still attached tied to Gladstone’s saddle, but the blade is too heavy for him and he fumbles with it, the weapon feeling uncomfortable in his hands. Gladstone and the two other horses are rearing backwards away from Moran, and Sherlock does not blame them.

“Sherlock stay back!” John says, pushing Sherlock backwards. John need not have worried about Sherlock, though, for Moran does not pay him any attention, his beady eyes fixed, instead, on John. A thrill of fear passes through Sherlock like a lightning bolt. Moriarty’s threat over John still stands, then; Sherlock had lied to them and now he must pay for that lie. Only…. No. No, he thinks, not now, not when they’ve come this far. Moriarty wants him to fight, then so be it he will fight.

Except, the sword in his hands is too heavy for him to lift and use effectively, and he curses his lack of strength. John is doing the best he can, warning Moran off with clever and precise flicks of his blade, trying to dart in to attack when he can, but mostly taking the defense. How long he can keep this up, Sherlock is not sure, and as he discards his useless sword with an angry cry, he watches on, mind racing with something he can do.

Suddenly the air is sliced in half with an arrow, which lodges itself in Moran’s shoulder. He howls, rearing on his back legs to look to his side, from where the arrow had come. Anthea stands there, crossbow re-loaded, eyes narrowed, ready to strike him once again.

Moran snarls, running for her. Anthea fires off another arrow, but Moran dodges this one, and there is no time for her to reload her weapon before Moran has reached her, greeting her with a piercing bite. His teeth sink into her shoulder, where she is not protected by her gear, and she screams, dropping her weapon, as he tosses her around like a rag doll. Sherlock watches this all with a sense of disconnection, as if he is watching this on a stage, not really involved, but rather the audience. John seems similarly frozen, sword still poised.

Moran drops Anthea like a discarded piece of rubbish, and she slumps to the ground silently, unmoving. With a satisfied growl he turns back to John, bared teeth now dripping with blood. He pounces.

John avoids the first swipe of his claws and blocks the chomping of his teeth with his blade. It gets caught between Moran’s teeth, and John fights to dislodge it. When he does, the blade is knocked from his hand, landing on the ground to the side of him. Sherlock’s heart almost lurches from his chest as Moran strikes, but John has leapt out of the way, rolling across the grass and scooping up his sword. Sherlock winces; that must hurt his scarred shoulder. John, however, must be fighting on adrenaline, for he raises his sword once again, gasping as he regains his breathing.

Moran growls low under his breath, taking a step back to re-evaluate the battle. This gives John enough time to glance back to Sherlock, who catches his eye, feeling completely and utterly helpless. John shoots him a look that says, ‘get out of here!’ but Sherlock shakes his head, straightening his spine.

Moran growls, settling back on his hind legs before pouncing once again. Sherlock and John stagger backwards, but John thrust his sword up at just the right time to slice at Moran’s leg, catching the wolf off guard, and it falters, leg going out from under it. With one side wounded by both an arrow and a sword wound, Moran stumbles to regain his footing, but so does John, whose scarred shoulder must be wreaking havoc with his ability to manage the sword for much longer. Moran has regained his footing just as John fumbles with the hilt in his sweaty palm, and Moran’s teeth are bared again as he smiles, finding that moment in the madness to strike!

Suddenly, Sherlock is filled with a sense of calm, and before he can understand what he is doing, his hand is raising and foreign words are spewing from his mouth. John’s sword is suddenly encased in a glowing blue light, which seems to suck the daylight from all around them to it as its power increases. Sherlock feels a pull from his hand, and a warmth settles over him, as if he, too, is encased in that blue light. Or rather, he realises, he is _conducting_ it. It is him who is enchanting John’s sword.

John is taken aback at first by the glowing blue sword, as is Moran, but both man and wolf regain their senses, and as Moran leaps for John, ready to take him within his toothy embrace, John lifts the sword easily and plunges it deep into Moran’s mouth. The blade slices through the roof of Moran’s mouth and out the other side, the tip of the blade a macabre crown on Moran’s head. The wolf falters, his back legs giving out as he is destabilised by the strike. He howls, eyes clenching shut in agony, before he begins to fall forwards. Sherlock is still rooted to the spot by whatever power had overtaken him, and so he cannot push John out of the way as the man comes directly into the line of Moran’s teeth. John lets go of the hilt, stumbling backwards, but he need not worry about being impaled on a wolf tooth, for as Moran’s injured body begins to give in to its injuries the wolf façade comes down, and he shrinks, becoming man once more. Finally, the blue light fades from the blade, and Sherlock is released, falling to his knees, and Moran is left lying on the ground, sword dissecting his head in half, dead.

John falls to his knees, breathing heavily, harsh breaths rasping in and out of them. Sherlock watches him, transfixed, as the man runs a hand over his face, turning to Sherlock with wide, red-rimmed eyes. “What was that?”

Sherlock falters, mouth opening and closing? Should he tell John? He understands what he had just done, but he cannot yet find the words to describe it, and it may lead to more questions now than he can answer, and so he simply shakes his head. “I don’t know.” He replies.

“Oh my god…” John trails off, head coming to rest against the ground as he takes a moment to recover. He seems to remember himself, however, and his head shoots up again and he reaches a hand out for Sherlock.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Sherlock lies, taking John’s hand. Both men use each other to climb to their feet. “Are you?”

“Yes.” John also lies, pulling Sherlock into a fierce hug. That is when something catches Sherlock’s attention out of the corner of his eye.

“Anthea!”

John swears under his breath, stopping only to fetch his physicians’ bag from his saddle, the horses, spooked, but thankfully still with them, before following Sherlock over to where Anthea lays, discarded in the dirt, hair flung messily over her pale face.

Sherlock reaches out and pulls her hair away, and Anthea sucks in a breath, eyes flickering open as she lets out a pained cry, and then a very colourful swear word. “Where did a wolf come from?!”

“That doesn’t matter.” John says, kneeling beside Sherlock. “All that matters is we get you patched up.”

Anthea grits her teeth as Sherlock and John help her into a sitting position. Her injured arm is limp, moving as if detached from her body. She glances down at it, face paling even more, and lets out another curse word.

John mutters under his breath, something about nerve damage and severed tendons. He experimentally touches Anthea’s arm at the shoulder joint. “Can you feel that?”

_“YES!”_ She cries, glaring at John.

John moves his hand down, touching her forearm. “How about here?”

Anthea hesitates, eyes widening in panic. “No!”

John sucks in a breath through his teeth. “This is severe, you need urgent and thorough medical attention-”

“Forget it, just go.” Anthea says. “You need to reach Reichenbach by sundown, we’ve delayed enough. I’ll only slow you down so _just go!”_  

“No, I cannot do that, not as a responsible practising physician!” John replies, pulling out bandages and salves.

“I’m not helpless I’ll find a way to seek help!” Anthea replies, and despite her pale complexion and the beads of sweat which roll down her brow she is determined, eyes alight. “You live long enough travelling the land you know where to find help. I’ll get some.”

John hesitates for a moment more, but Anthea berates him with a harsh ‘ _Go!’_ and he stands, leaving her with the bandages and salve. “Keep those,” he says, “And good luck.”

“You too.” Anthea says, and she grabs Sherlock’s hand for a moment as he climbs to his feet. “Destroy that jewel for all of us, Sherlock. And please survive, your brother has waited for so very long to see you again.”

Sherlock nods, clasping her fingers in his own very quickly before he lets go and he and John are racing back to their horses. John pauses for a moment by Moran’s body, head titling as he tries to decide whether to take his sword back or not before Sherlock speaks, “Take mine. I have no use for it anyway.”

John gives him a long look, a faint crease between his brows, before he nods, scooping Sherlock’s off the ground and tying it to his saddle. “Let’s go.”

Helping Sherlock into his saddle, John climbs into his with a grunt, hand instinctively going up to massage at his shoulder. Sherlock gives him a long look, but John just shakes his head and gives him a small smile. “Just playing up, is all. Come on.”

He turns his horse, kicking the dirt up from behind them and spraying Moran’s body. Sherlock’s follows suit, sparing one last glance back at Anthea, hunched over and fumbling with the bandages before he looks forwards, leaving behind Moriarty’s last steppingstone, and focussing on future events to come. Now he is sure, and his plan will go ahead, and with a reluctant heart he admits that that battle will be far worse than the one that has played out today.                                                                                            

* * *

 

Horse hooves thundering against the ground have been all that Sherlock has heard for the past hours as the sun has set its farewell path in motion. The sound seems to reverberate in his ears, making them ring. Although, Sherlock wonders whether that ringing may be caused by something else.

As they near the tomb, he has felt that same sense of calm settle over him as did when he had enchanted John’s sword. It appears to him as an invisible wave, spilling out from over the hillsides and rocky crevices they cross and settles over him, natural and comfortable. It is coming from the tomb, he knows, and in its strangeness,  it calms him, setting his heart to a steady tempo in his chest.

At one point, they are riding along a hillside which seems to look out over the entire land. Sherlock slows Gladstone enough to try and make out Saint Bartholomew’s Plain in the distance. He sees it, the dip of the land at it bends inwards, the tents which line the rim of the plain, large structures which may be catapults, or canons, Sherlock cannot be sure, which also stand ready, thousands of people, like ants, scurrying around. He feels very separate from it, up here, out of reach, although his part in this war is just as important as the battle which will take place at dawn. The players are moving into their positions, the game is almost ready to commence.

Sherlock tries, then, to picture Mycroft, his brother, an indistinct ginger form, tries to reach out to him, in his mind, but he finds nothing, and he retreats with a soft sigh.                                                                                         

* * *

 

The moon is fighting for dominance in the sky with the sun by the time they reach Reichenbach village. Sherlock strokes Gladstone’s neck as they slow down, approaching civilisation; the horse has done well to get them here on time, and Sherlock is not ungrateful.

Their safehouse is a small cottage on the edge of the village the side of the Reichenbach Falls. According to Anthea, the tomb is a half an hour walk from their cottage. The identifying marker is apparently a crumbling well which stands to the right of the cottage, and both men soon spot the well, knowing they have reached their final destination.

The village had been quiet, not a human in sight as they passed through, and that does not change as they dismount from their horses.

“This is a bit eerie.” John mutters as he helps Sherlock down, hands lingering on his hips.

“We just fought a man who transformed into a wolf, and this is what you find eerie?” Sherlock asks, and John snorts, rolling his eyes, moving away to lead the horses to a troth of water. Sherlock wanders a little away from him, to the river that flows through the heart of the village. The water moves at a gentle pace, and Sherlock once again feels connected to the calm presence which had washed over him earlier; it is less like a wave now, and more like the river which flows beside him, subdued, but with an undeniable power within it. It steadies his resolve, keeps him grounded. After the flurrying tempo of their ride, it is exactly what he needs.   

Suddenly, from behind him, the door of the cottage flings open, the hinges squeaking in protest. Sherlock turns, eyes narrowing as he tries to make out the figure which stands in the doorway, but in the half-light of the setting sun, he cannot discern any features.

“ _Sherlock!”_ A feminine voice, clear as crystal, ringing out into the silent village, says. And then the woman steps into the light, and Sherlock can make out her high cheekbones, her cerulean eyes, and the cupid bow of her mouth so like his own. Or rather, he should say he is like _her,_ for she is older, wrinkles lining her face, but she carries them gracefully, as she does her slender body in a practical yet fine quality gown. There is another feminine figure behind her, but Sherlock cannot make out her face, and all his attention is drawn to the woman who is now walking towards him, her face a storm of emotions.

She stops in front of him, and Sherlock can meet her eye for the first time. She stares into his, searching for _something,_ and she must find it, for her bottom lip twitches and her brow creases, and she pulls him into a bone crushing hug.

“ _Sherlock.”_ She says again, her crystal tone cracked through with relief and joy and pain.

“Mother.” Sherlock says in return, bringing his arms up to return the hug from another person not long ago consigned to a forgotten memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Kudos and comments greatly appreciated.


	22. Greetings and Farewells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this story reaches its climax, I am getting more and more nervous about whether people will be satisfied with it, in the end, so much so that I get a little nervous lurch posting each chapter. I hope you enjoy this one. 
> 
> You might also have noticed I've changed my username... I needed a change, and I also really love 'Gentleman Jack'....

_“Sherlock.” She says again, her crystal tone cracked through with relief and joy and pain._

_“Mother.” Sherlock says in return, bringing his arms up to return the hug from another person not long ago consigned to a forgotten memory._                                                                                       

* * *

 

“My son.” His mother whispers, a hand coming up to the back of his head to cradle it, long fingers stroking through the fuzz of hair now growing back after years of enforced shaving. Sherlock allows himself a moment to tuck his head into her shoulder, to lose himself in a moment of vulnerability as his mother holds him for the first time in eighteen years. She smells of lavender and other such pleasant flowers; it is soothing, and his eyes close of their own will. “ _My son.”_ His mother whispers again, her words spoken only for him.

How long they embrace, Sherlock cannot be sure, but when they finally break apart his mother cups his face in her hands, stroking over his cheekbones. Her own are wet from her tears. “I never gave up.” She says. “I knew you were out there, somewhere, and the time apart makes this meeting even sweeter.”

“Oh, Sherlock…” sobs the other woman from behind them, and Sherlock peers past his mother at the woman now illuminated in the moonlight. She is perhaps a little older than his mother, but standing just as proudly, although the handkerchief she holds to her face does mar that image a little. Sherlock’s mother sighs, releasing her son’s face but putting her arm around his shoulders.

“Don’t snivel, Lady Hudson.” She says, not unkindly, and Sherlock can see that some secret message passes between the two women, a shared joy, perhaps. “Sherlock, may I introduce Lady Martha Hudson, your former tutor, and now a close friend of mine.”

“Oh, Sherlock, look at you!” Lady Hudson says, coming forward to place a hand, wet from her tears, against his face. “So grown up!”

“Yes, quite the young man now.” His mother agrees, and although her eyes linger over his skinny frame, and the scars around his wrists, she does not say anything touching upon them; now is neither the time nor the place, and Sherlock does not think he could take any more pity. What’s done is done, there is nothing they can do about it now. John has taught him how to manage it.

“I remember you…” Sherlock says slowly, looking at Lady Hudson. Yes, one of the memories uncovered by Janine had been of him learning his spelling with his mother, and another lady, his tutor, to the side. Seeing them now, it is as if a painting has finally been finished, the details added, the faces given character. A painting eighteen years in the making.

There is a sudden scurry of movement to their right, and John looks bashful as he recovers from almost tripping over a piece of rubble fallen from the dilapidated well. He mutters an apology, scratching the back of his head. His mother has made her introductions, now Sherlock must make his.

“Mother, Lady Hudson, might I introduce to you Doctor John Watson, formerly of King Charles Magnussen’s army but now a loyal ally to Sherrinford. He has saved my life… more times than I can count.” He says, and John smiles at him, eyes gleaming.

“Your Majesty, My Lady.” John saws, bowing.

The Queen’s eyes narrow, and she says in a distrustful tone. “Formerly of King Magnussen’s army?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” John says, not meeting her eye but rising from his bow. “I met Sherlock, working under James Moriarty, I am ashamed to say, but times were hard and I needed money. But the moment I met your son, I knew that loyalty to both those men was not something I could allow myself to give. Even before we discovered he was the lost prince of Sherrinford, my loyalty was to him, and not those who sought him harm.”

“Hold on, ‘before we discovered’?” Lady Hudson says, tucking her handkerchief into her sleeve. “Do you mean to tell me you had no idea, Sherlock?”

Sherlock can feel his mother’s arm around him tense, and Sherlock bites his lip, and says, “Perhaps this is better talked about once we are inside?”

“Yes, indeed.” His mother says nodding. The Queen releases him from her grip, approaching John and holding out her hand for him to kiss. He does, going down on one knee to do it. “Any man who would rather protect my son than serve a man who uses his power for no good cause is ally enough for me. Even friend.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” John says, smiling up at her.

She nods, releasing her hand and turning back to her son. “We can talk all we like later, but first, I think there is something we need to do. Lady Hudson, fetch the sword, and let us destroy this damned jewel for good.”

Sherlock freezes. _Damn!_ He had forgotten that his allies would have no reason, like he does, to delay until morning. He thinks fast. “Wait. Mother. We cannot destroy it tonight, not yet.”

“What? Why?” John asks, as his mother also queries him.

Sherlock wets his bottom lip with his tongue. “Ronan Dartoyle, the sage, we went to him. He told me, when you had stepped out John, that I must wait until the rising of the sun to destroy the jewel.”

His mother hesitates. “That is what he told you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said. “I trust his advice. There is a lot he has revealed to me.”

His mother catches his eye for a moment longer than is necessary, and an unspoken understanding passes between them. she looks away quickly, though, and nods.

“If that is his will… Dartoyle is a wise man. We will wait until dawn.”

John frowns. “But the battle will begin then, too, isn’t it best to get it over with now? Give the Moriartys no foothold.”

_‘Yes, that makes perfect sense._ ’ Sherlock thinks, but instead says. “I trust in Dartoyle’s advice. He practically got us out of Appledore and out from under Magnussen’s thumb. Well, him and John.”

John raises his eyebrows, as if to say to Sherlock ‘Why all the praise?’ but Sherlock just raises his back, before he allows his mother to take his arm and lead him into the cottage, Lady Hudson and John following on behind.

“Oh, an army doctor then, John?” Lady Hudson says. “Quite the catch! Anyone waiting for you back in Appledore?”

John chuckles lightly under his breath. “No. Not in Appledore.”                                                                                        

* * *

 

“This is the Braker Sword.” The Queen says, carefully throwing back pieces of cloth. “Forged it the time of our ancestors to defeat the last Moriarty king of Appledore. Now, it is said to destroy the artefacts of his reign.”

She unveils the sword, and the first glimpse Sherlock gets is of a blade, shined so perfectly it mirrors back to him the beamed ceiling of the cottage. He steps forward to get a proper look, John joining him.

“Wow.” John says.

“Indeed.” Sherlock agrees.

The sword must be about six feet in length, taller than both John and Sherlock. The blade makes up most of the length, the steel glinting in the low light of the cottage, but it does not detract from the beauty of the hilt. Cast in gold, intricate patterns decorate the pommel and the cross-guard, whilst the grip is made of leather, embossed to give a firm grip. Set into the pommel is also a precious jewel which seems to glint with all the colours of nature. It reminds Sherlock of the stained-glass windows in Appledore Castle.

“That is one of the jewels of our family.” The Queen explains. “It is an opal. Our ancestors thought that to inset the Braker Sword with our own jewel would increase its ability to destroy those jewels belonging to the Moriartys.”

Sherlock touches it lightly with his fingertips, reaching out, straining to feel a connection, that familiar wave of calm, but nothing comes. He retracts his fingers, moving his eyes down to the blade. This, to him, is the most impressive feature of the sword, not just for its length, but for the intricate embossing work done on the fuller. Multiple bloodhounds, alternately with their snouts to the sky and their snouts to the ground, travel down the fuller. Around them are decorated flowers and multiple suns and moons. At the end point of the fuller, a magpie is in flight, chased by the bloodhound with its nose to the sky.

“The bloodhounds are the symbol of our family, of course. Some look to the ground, to concentrate on the protecting and prosperity of the land, and others look to the sky, to represent our future on the throne, the promise of a new day under our protection. The magpie symbolises the Moriartys, being defeated by us, like the sword will destroy the jewels.” The Queen explains, watching her son’s eyes roam over the sword.

Sherlock knows he will not need the sword. How appropriate, he thinks, seeing as he cannot handle one to save his life.

“This is… just beautiful. May I?” John asks, and the Queen nods. Ever so carefully, John picks it up, swinging it as he gets a feel for the weapon in his hand. Lady Hudson makes a noise of protest as she has to move her skirts out of John’s way, lest they be sliced in half. Sherlock can see from the tense line of his shoulder it is causing strain on his scars, and he raises his eyebrows at John, silently asking ‘who are you trying to impress?’

“You must not hurt your shoulder, Doctor Watson, no matter how much you want to impress us all.” The Queen remarks, amused, and Sherlock has to fight not to laugh as John’s face turns as red as a beetroot. He carefully puts the sword back down, bashfully rubbing his shoulder.

“I see where Sherlock gets it from.” He remarks.

“Quite.” The Queen says, before turning her attention back to the jewel. “A strike of that blade down upon the Moriarty jewel and the stone will be destroyed. And then, hopefully, James and Janine will be captured and we can put an end to this. James is riding to Baskerville as we speak, yes?”

“Yes.” Sherlock replies, not too quickly, he hopes. “I got the message to him.”

“Interesting, how you are able to do that…” The Queen remarks, eyes piercing as she looks at her son. She turns to Lady Hudson and John. “Might Sherlock and I have a moment alone?”

“Oh, yeah, of course!” John says, and he escorts Lady Hudson to the door. He turns back before he leaves, however, to give Sherlock a reassuring smile, and then he is gone, and Sherlock is alone with his mother.

She turns to him, her eyes alight with pain. But there is an undertone of resignation in her tone when she says, “You know, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nods. “Care to explain?”                                                                                  

* * *

 

“You must be careful, Sherlock.” His mother tells him, a while later, after a long and rather exhausting discussion. Sherlock’s mind feels clear, his mother’s words cementing those holes which had filled in the brickwork of all he knows before, but it is also crammed with everything he has learnt, and he needs now to process it and to file it away.

There is, however, a more important issue he needs to address: John.

“Do not worry, mother.” Sherlock says, despite his own worries. “John is an excellent healer. He has been… incredibly helpful to me, more than I can express, actually, in words.”

The Queen looks at him fondly. “You two are close, incredibly so.”

Sherlock glances her way and then back to the far distance. He feels his cheeks flush pink. “Before I could remember, before Janine recovered my memories, he was the only person who had shown such unbiased kindness. There was no ulterior move, of course, he was getting paid to look after me, but it was never about that. That is John, really: kind. I’ve… struggled,” He forces himself to admit, almost choking on the words. “To consider myself worthy, of his appreciation. For so long, I have not known who I was. For so long, I was just a creature that existed for the means of other people, and then I was given a new name, but he still had the same identity. John has helped show me that to be who I want to, I have to define myself. To not let others do it for me. John, I have…. Well, he says I have given him more than he has ever had, but… he has given _me_ more, than I could ever give him. I owe more to him than he does me.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I think it is much more than appreciation, don’t you? I think it is love.” His mother says, her smile beaming.

Sherlock turns to her. “Is that how you would define that word?” He is genuinely curious.

The Queen thinks on this before nodding. “Yes. It is. Here you are, about to do something which could see you put in serious harm’s way, and all you can think about it John, and how it might save him pain.”

“It is for everyone, that I am doing what I am doing.” Sherlock tries to counter, but she raises an eyebrow.

“I think it is really for him, first off, in your heart, is it not?” The Queen counters. “You would have done this for him long before you understood your title, and the duty that comes with it, though, wouldn’t you? I don’t think you really understand yet for who you do this for, in the bigger picture, but you would do it for John in an instant.”

“Yes.” Sherlock confesses, voice barely more than a whisper. “I would.”

“That is love, my son.” The Queen says. “As sappy as it sounds. And I thank my lucky stars that your doctor turned up when he did, for had you been dragged into Moriarty and Magnussen’s nest without his presence, we very may well have lost you. In more ways than one.”

Sherlock hums, nodding. He turns to his mother again. “If something does go wrong, please see he has a good income, a good job. He really is an excellent healer, I’m not just biased.”

The Queen smiles. “Of course, my dear.” She seems to consider him for a moment. “You are so different from your brother.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Tell me about Mycroft? The only memories I have of him are of a rather uptight child.”

The Queen laughs, a deep sound which resonates from deep within her, her head tipping. There are tears of mirth in her eyes when she recovers. “You are more on the nose there than you can imagine!”                                                                               

* * *

 

It is later, the moon at its apex in the starlit sky, when John and Sherlock finally get some time alone. Lady Hudson and the Queen have retreated to the next room in the small cottage for some rest, leaving the two men by the dying fire which crackles weakly in the fireplace. John has his arm around Sherlock as they sit on the ground by the fire. His other hand is massaging at his scars.

“You shouldn’t have picked up the sword. You needn’t have done it to impress me.” Sherlock mumbles against John’s other shoulder.

John chuckles. “I was more worried about impressing your mother and Lady Hudson. You should have heard what she said to me when you were talking with your mother. She asked me all about myself, and then us, and then warned that if I did anything to hurt you, she would see me whipped through the streets of Musgrave town naked!”

Sherlock laughs quietly. “Best make sure you don’t do anything to hurt me then.”

John’s ministrations at his shoulder pause for a moment. “I wouldn’t ever.”

Sherlock winces. “I know. It was a poor joke.”

He swallows, feeling bile in the back of his throat, tangy and acidic. John would never do anything to hurt him, he knows that, and yet tomorrow he may potentially cause John more harm than the man would ever be able to do against any man. He tries to justify it to himself that he does it to keep the man safe, from harm; Moran’s attack on them had been against John, not him, and he will do what he can to see that is the last attack of that kind from James Moriarty against John.

Settling back against John’s shoulder, he tries to shake the feeling of finality off himself, but it settles itself over him like a cloak. He has an equal chance tomorrow, between life and death, in theory, anyway, so he should not be thinking so maudlin, but he cannot help it. It is a testament, he thinks, to how far he has come; had ‘Will’ been asked whether he would die tomorrow, he would have simply shrugged and said he couldn’t care less, but Sherlock…. He has something worth fighting for. Someone worth fighting for. He and Will are not so different, he still finds emotions confusing and prefers the cold hard facts, but unlike Will, he has had the space in which to emotionally grow and appreciate the benefits of feeling. In a way, it has helped him on this journey which will end tomorrow, for it has made him stronger, grown him as a person, so that he can understand people’s motives more than he ever could before.

Certain aspects of life remain a mystery to him, and some emotions cause him confusion and destabilise him at times, but were his growth to have been a physical one, he would by now be seven feet tall; those moments of doubt can grab at him, but they can no longer tear him down.

He uses that conviction now, to moor himself to the harbour, to not loose himself in the frustration, the indignation that tells him it is not fair, to have come this far only to possibly loose it all tomorrow morning. He can either let those feelings tear him down and perhaps deliver to James Moriarty the satisfaction, the vindication he thinks he deserves, or, he can climb on top of them, and use them as a ladder to reach, for himself and others, a better place, where the fruits of his progress will be more fully realised.

He wants to see the results of his efforts, and he will do all he can to fight to make that happen.

Keeping this from John, though, does not come easily, and whilst the man has been forgiving of the things Sherlock has kept from him in the past, the stakes are a lot higher, and he certainly hopes the man will not be too cross. Sherlock knows John is truthful when he promises he will never to anything to harm him, but Sherlock has learnt from his conversation with his mother, than even when someone loves another person, they can still hurt them, whether they know it or not. he trusts that the barriers that came between his mother and the man she loved will not come between himself and John, but… he does not want to push the man’s belief in him past its breaking point.

And he sincerely hopes he will not do so tomorrow. Still, the lies feel bitter on his tongue, and he thinks back a few days ago, to swallowing that poison and faking his death. It feels not better than that time, what he is about to do, and the taste on his tongue is no different.

He instantly wants to remedy that, to provide the cure, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times, words tripping on his tongue, words weighted down by this cloak of finality, words he knows he can speak now, and mean.

_I love you._

But he doesn’t, and in the end, the words that come out of his mouth are, “John, do you know how to restart a heart?”

John tenses, looking to Sherlock in confusion. “Err… yes, why are you asking?”

Sherlock does not know why, that was not what he meant to leave his mouth, and he already knew that information, but he falters, simply saying, “I was just thinking about Anthea.”

“Oh, right, I see how it is.” John says jokily, pretending to be miffed. “Lost interest, have you?”

“Never.” Sherlock replies. “Only, she could have died, today, and so could so many others tomorrow, and I was curious if there was a way to bring them back from the dead.”

“Well, yeah, there is, there’s a method. I’ll teach you, if you like? When we’re through all this. Although, you’re the last person I need to lecture about coming back from the dead.” He says, a laugh in his throat.

“Indeed…” Sherlock says, pushing his head closer against John’s chest, all the words he has not said running through his brain. He will commit them to paper, he decides, once John is asleep, and leave the man with hope and an apology.                                                                               

* * *

 

The moon is saying goodbye to its time of influence, greeting the horizon in its retirement as Sherlock throws his cloak around his shoulder, peering out of the cottage window. He has time.

Silence reigns, and his breathing seems louder to his ears as it is amplified in the space. It is low and calm, and he feels surer of himself, not hearing it as an erratic heaving of breath. He looks to John, breathing deep and even in sleep, and allows his gaze to linger on him for a moment before he turns, blocking out the significance of that possible last look he will have at the man that he loves.

He makes sure the letter he wrote for him will be in John’s line of sight when he wakes, as well as his open notes on the Moriarty jewels. It will be up to John, with prompting from his mother, to connect the dots. Sherlock makes his way to the door. Opening it as quietly as he can, the squeaking hinges wining slow and low, he takes on last look back at John, face relaxed, blonde hair mussed up in sleep. He longs to go back, to flatten it down against the man’s head, but the moon makes quick progress towards the horizon and he must go, and so with a whispered ‘Goodbye, John’ he turns, closing the door behind him.

He follows the river’s path away from the village, tracing the movement of the water with his eyes. It is relaxing, and he feels his shoulders tip back, his spine straightens. After half an hour, a large shape crests on the horizon, and next to it a smaller, human shape. Sherlock stops for just a moment, but he nods to himself, letting out a long, slow breath and moving off again. He is ready.                                                                              

* * *

 

Back in the cottage, John sleeps on, blissfully aware of where Sherlock has gone and what he intends to do. Next to him lies a letter, folded with the name ‘John’ written on the outside. It reads:

_Dear John,_

_I suppose this could be called my ‘note’, although you are deserving of more than words on a piece of paper. But, with the situation as it is, I can, as in most cases, offer you only what I have at my fingertips._

_You will be cross at me, I know, for what I have done, but I understand that anger does not come from malice, and instead comes from a place of warmth. That warmth burns deep down within me, and I hope it does in you, too, not that I doubt you._

_I did not know what it was until I spoke with my mother, but now I am certain, and I only regret I could not summon the courage to say it to you in person, but here it is in ink instead: I love you._

_A vague phrase I know, and a little on the sentimental side, but let me explain to you what it means to me: Your love is to me life; it gives me all I never had before, and makes me sure I never want to go back to that._

_So please know, in light of this, that what I have done was done not out of selfish reasons, for if I had a choice, I would chose not to do what I am doing. But, I have learnt things about myself which have made this necessary, and so I am leaving you only to save you, John._

_What I have learnt has nothing to do with you, or anything to do with me, actually. What I have learnt will not influence how I define myself, only in my refusal to be what, by blood, I apparently am. It is an irritant, a large one at that, but an irritant nonetheless, and the only way for me to deal with it, is by putting myself in harms way._

_I did not tell you because I did not trust you, John, but because I know you too well to know you would try and stop me or put yourself in harms way instead of me. I love you for that, but I could not allow you to do that, not for this cause. You said I did not have to protect, but in this case, I wanted to._

_I am meeting James Moriarty at dawn at Sherlock Holmes’s tomb, where I will destroy the jewel and Moriarty at the same time. The only snag is that I too may find myself caught up in the destruction. In fact, I am certain of it. It is inevitable, and I am sorry for that._

_I find myself the unbeknownst owner of an ability that not so long ago I thought was only the talk of stories, consigned to fiction, and all I can say it: it’s just a trick, a magic trick. But, it is a one trick magic trick, and it might cost me my life, so please, John, accept my apology, and please…_

_You re-started my life, so please, now, restart my heart._

_Ever yours,_

_Sherlock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	23. The Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update, I've had a hectic week.
> 
> This is the big one so... I hope you enjoy...
> 
>  
> 
> (P.S. Sherlock walks to the tomb instead of taking his horse for dramatic purposes, not because I forgot about the horses.... *cough*)

There is a light breeze blowing, but otherwise the sunrise is peaceful, the clear sky, promising a sunny day. Sherlock breathes it in, the smell of the nearby ocean, salt tickling at his nostrils, as he approaches the tomb and the figure stood waiting for him.

“Sherly, my dear, it is good to see you.” James Moriarty greets, as Sherlock comes to a stop on the opposite side of the tomb from him. “Just look at all this beauty.”

Sherlock does, and he agrees, their surroundings are beautiful; he can see why he loved it once, long ago. There is a terrific beauty to the Reichenbach falls, as if they could be flying, the current of the water getting faster and faster until it spills over the side of the earth, like if one were to take off on the back of a bird, gaining speed to launch into flight. The water froths and splutters as it falls over the edge, hitting the water below with a deafening roar. Strange. Sherlock had thought he would be scared of this amount of water, but he cannot see himself drowning in it; instead, it looks as if the water could pick him up and take him far away. It is almost hard to hear Moriarty’s words over that roar, and Sherlock realises how small they both are, in their human bodies, compared to the beating of the water. Although no matter how small, he knows that in their palms they hold the fate of this entire world, could turn the falls off like turning off a tap.

“This, though, this has to be the most beautiful thing here.” Moriarty says, slapping a hand against the tomb. “A monument to the man who died, but not really.” He jokes.

Sherlock blinks, turning to the monument, taking it in properly for the first time. Although, to take it in properly, to catalogue it in his mind, would take far longer than the time he has. A master stonemason must have been employed, for the smoothing down and the carving into the dark marble must have taken hundreds of hours. The tomb’s canopy rises far above their heads, rising and falling like stalagmites in a rocky cave. Arches are carved into the stalagmites, decorated with intricate creatures and animals. The tomb itself is a strange mockery, for it is a large rectangular slab of marble, intended to hold a body, and yet Sherlock knows that it is hollow inside.

The tomb itself is simple compared to its canopy, engraved with a brief in memoriam:

_This tomb here erected to commemorate the life of Prince William Sherlock Scott Holmes, second son of Queen Violet Holmes, younger brother to Prince Mycroft Holmes._

Above the inscription is what catches Sherlock’s attention, however, and it holds Moriarty’s as well, the man smiling as he sees Sherlock admiring it.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? Now you know how it feels.” Moriarty says, fingers playing with his own jewel where it dangles around his neck.

Sherlock does know how it feels, for the physical beauty of the jewel is nothing compared to the comfort of its presence as its magic wraps itself around his mind, warming him from the inside. The stone seems to emulate a blue light, for differing shades of blue catch the eye, and yet sunlight has not fallen on it yet. The heart of the jewel is a deep blue, like that of the ocean, and Sherlock has seen all these colours before, in his own eyes.

“Yes, that beauty is reflected in your eyes, is it not?” Moriarty says, a small smirk on his face. He looks away to the far-off horizon, in the direction of Saint Bartholomew’s Plain. “Now, the time is almost upon us. The battle is about to begin.”                                                                                  

* * *

 

John wakes slowly, the blissful ignorance that sleep brings disappearing as he wakes, and the hard ground he is lying on makes itself known in the stiffness of his limbs and the flaring of pain in his scarred shoulder. He groans, rolling slowly onto his back and lifting himself up into a sitting position. He rubs at his shoulder, yawning so widely his jaw clicks.

As wakefulness returns, he gets a grip on his bearings, and why he is sat on a hard floor, and he turns, looking for the person who should also be there with him, and he is-

Gone.

Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

“Sherlock?” He calls, stumbling to his feet and cursing under his breath when his shoulder twinges. “Sherlock?”

He peers out the window to see they are in the tipping point between night and day. Dawn will break within the hour, and then it will all begin, he thinks with a sense of foreboding, a shiver travelling down his spine. War never gets any easier.

“Sherlock?” He calls again, assuming the man might have stepped outside for a moment, but he freezes when he turns around and spot the folded piece of paper with his name written on it.

A letter. He had completely missed it in his bleary half-awake state, but he rushes to it now, grabbing it in his hand and unfolding it, almost dropping it in his urgency.

As he reads, adrenaline flood through his system, starting in his chest and growing outwards, but his feet are rooted to the ground, and so he can only stand, helpless, as he takes in Sherlock’s words. He finishes the letter, and then re-reads it again, eyes scanning every word.

“Oh my god.” He mutters, the letter falling from his hand. He puts a hand to his mouth, his eyes catching on to something else, Sherlock’s scrawling handwriting jumping out at him. He staggers over on leaden legs, scooping up the papers. They are notes, on the Moriarty jewels, and one note in particular strikes terror in him, like a band beginning to play the song of his sorrows.

“No.” He mutters, dropping the notes, and stumbling to the next room. He notices, briefly, as he passes by, that the Braker Sword is still lying on the side table, and has been all night, apparently. “Your Majesty!” He calls, intending to wake the Queen, but she is already waiting for him, hands placed politely in her lap, spine straight, face calm. She looks up at John as he appears in the doorway.

“Ah, John, you are awake. Good; any longer and I would have had to wake you myself. Now,” She takes a deep breath, “there are some things I must explain to you.”                                                                                 

* * *

 

“So, you’ve worked it out, then?” Moriarty asks, tone drawling.

Sherlock blinks, turning to the man. “Yes. My question is, why did you not tell me before? Why wait for me to figure it out, and risk me turning against you?”

Moriarty smiles. “Because that would have been too easy! I needed you to _want_ it! I do have to say, when you faked your death, I thought I had made a mistake then, but I just _knew_ that death was too boring for you! And you escaped from under Magnussen’s nose,” Moriarty laughs, throwing his head back and clapping his hands together, “fantastic, Sherlock, really! If that man had carried on his awful ministrations with you, I may have done something I would have come to regret. He was distracting you, turning you away from what really mattered at the time, but you came through in the end.”

“Magnussen knows nothing of this, does he?” Sherlock asks, and Moriarty cackles even harder.

“No!” He confirms. “No! He and your brother will kill each other easily enough in battle! Their honour and pomp and _protecting the value of their_ _kingship,”_ He screws his face up as if smelling something unpleasant. “It will all mean nothing, in the light of what we are going to achieve! Magnussen’s men are bound to Janine’s will, ready to serve us once the spell is through!”

“You said it yourself, kings are just puppets…” Sherlock remarks quietly, but Moriarty still hears him over the roar of the falls.

“Exactly, Sherlock! You understand! Good, I’m _glad!_ You see, this is why I let you work it out yourself, this is why, when you escaped, I realised you would still come to me, with a little push from Janine and myself, of course! We are going to be gods! You’ll no longer have to keep faking your death, you can live forever!”

Sherlock adjusts his footing, eyes narrowing. “But in the process, you will destroy this world, rip it into pieces. Why live with that? A barren world with no other inhabitants bar ourselves?”

“You will see, Sherly, I promise you that! You will understand that to live alone but godlike is much better than living among the many and being like them! They will be our puppets, Magnussen’s immortal army, to do whatever we will them to do!”

Sherlock sighs; game face for now, no matter how much Moriarty’s words make him want to roll his eyes. “But why? Really, in the grand scheme of things, why do _this?”_

“BECAUSE IT’S FUN!” Moriarty bellows. “Because who would have seen it coming! All these stupid people with their stupid strategies and battle plans and I am going to uproot them all and show them that the Moriartys truly are the natural leaders of this land!” he turns to Sherlock, hand stretched out as if he is an actor, welcoming Sherlock’s character onto the stage. “And you will be part of that! Isn’t that exciting?!”

Sherlock nods, keeping his breathing calm, his face open. Moriarty seems to consider him for a minute, before his eyes flick from Sherlock to the sky and then back. “We’ve got a moment before we must begin. Tell me, how did you work it out?”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows, politely enquiring. “Work out what?”

“That you are my brother?”                                                                                   

* * *

 

“Lords, I need to go, need to get after him.” John says once the Queen has finished speaking, both of them now standing in the front room, Braker sword to one side, Sherlock’s notes to the other. His mind is spinning at a sickening rate, all he has learnt making his head feel heavy.

“Take the sword, John.” The Queen says. “It will be no good against the jewel but will be if you need to defend yourself.”

John does, getting a grip of it in his hand. His shoulder protests the pressure it forces across his shoulders, but he blocks it out. This situation is far too dire for him to be weighed down with the ghosts of battles past, he has to focus on the one taking place right at this moment.

“By Sherlock’s reckoning, you have twenty minutes to get to him. You will do that if you take one of the horses.” The Queen states calmly, hands clasped in front of her.

“You seem awfully calm, for a woman whose long-lost son might die!” John says, not unkindly, but with enough bite in his tone wrought from panic for the Queen to rear back and reproach him.

“Believe me John, I am scared. More scared than I’ve ever been. But one is not a queen if one does not have a good game face. And I trust him, John. I trusted every word that came out of his mouth. And that is more than I had eighteen years ago, when he disappeared at the age of four! He is a young man now and I trust his judgement, just as he trusts yours to save him.” The Queen replies, her eyes alight in her otherwise placid face.

“Yes, yes, sorry, of course….” John mutters, patting down his doublet, making sure he is not forgetting something.

“John, go, you have everything you need!” The Queen says, and John nods, dashing to the door. He is halfway out of it but is enough in earshot to hear her when she says, “Go and save him.”                                                                              

* * *

 

“Half-brother.” Sherlock corrects.

Moriarty rolls his eyes. “Formalities, Sherlock, it doesn’t matter. We are still connected by blood.”

Sherlock hums, considering Moriarty’s question. “I had my suspicions since Janine’s words, which were of course, intended to plant that seed in my brain. I did not take me long after that to figure it out, not with everything I had learnt previously.”

“’When third jewel be touched by sibling three, power over life immortal shall be given to thee.’” Moriarty quotes, lips

Sherlock nods his head. “Precisely. Dartoyle left me a clue in the book. He marked the page. Then, I visited him, and he alluded that there was another reason for the jewel to be at my grave.”

“It belongs to you.” Moriarty asserts.

Sherlock shrugs, trying to look bashful. “It was there for me to see, but the patterns alluded me until I could find proof my… lineage.”

Moriarty smiles. “You managed to push Janine out and then get into her own head. She was quite cross, you know.”

“From then on I began to connect the dots. The mention of a third sibling in the book, the placement of the jewel at my tomb, my ability to do what you and Janine can, of course, and the cause of your exile following the circumstances of my birth.”

“Done some research, have we?”

“Yes, Dartoyle’s biography of me, actually. It interested me, that the details surrounding both my birth and your family’s exile a few years later were both rather… vague, for someone as astute as Ronan Dartoyle. The lack of clarity surrounding why your family was exiled was just as revealing as any clear-cut statement could be. And Dartoyle knew the truth, I could see it in his eyes, so there had to have been a bigger, political reason my lineage was kept a secret. The influence of my father, I should think, seeing as his wife, my mother, lay with your father and made him a cuckold.”

Moriarty’s eyes light up. “I am only a few years older than you, I remember when he finally discovered it, it was just before your fourth birthday. I remember shouting and packing and being shoved onto a horse’s back. The noble house of Moriarty, gone.”

Sherlock smiles bitterly. “One of the memories Janine uncovered, it was of my father berating me. He called me ‘no son of mine’. It was all there for me to see, but I suppose ‘fate’ had to wait for me to see it, just like you did.”

“And now you have, and you are going to join us, aren’t you? Come on, sherlock, think of how exciting it will be! You’ll never have to serve another man again!”

Sherlock bites the inside of his lip, straightening his spine. He makes Moriarty wait for just a second longer before he says, “What do I have to do?”                                                                                

* * *

 

John blinks back the tears that sting his eyes from the sheer speed he is travelling, his horse doing well to keep up the pace. He is following the river to the falls, that his only guide, and it rushes past him and flows alongside him in a blur.

He hopes he gets there in time. No, not _hopes…._ He _will._                                                                                  

* * *

 

In another part of the land of Sherrinford, a regent prince rears his horse around, ready to face the enemy after a rousing speech to his troops. He turns, glad for the helmet that covers his face as his eyes roll with resignation of what he is about to face. Lords, Mycroft _hates_ legwork.

Across the plain from him, positioning his own horse, is King Charles Augustus Magnussen. The man’s silver amour is dulled, but Mycroft knows the moment the sun rises above them and graces the Plain with its light, its dull sheen will be replaced with a glowing majesty of light. Magnussen’s sword moves in the distance, and Mycroft tightens the grip on his own.

He allows his eyes to trail away from the army, _thousands of men,_ all lined up, some on the plain, some waiting at the rim, ready to sweep in as a second wave. The figure that catches his attention, however, is stood in between both armies, commanding her own space above them. From here, it looks as if she could teeter and fall of her precipice overlooking the Plain, but Mycroft knows that Janine Moriarty is in command of herself, and soon others, unless his long-lost brother destroys the jewel in time.

The sun breeches the horizon, and Mycroft turns his gaze back to the army in front of him. He raises his sword. Magnussen does the same. Both men shout out at the same time, giving the order. The battle has begun.                                                                            

* * *

 

From her vantage point, Janine can survey the whole battlefield, and it makes her laugh, to see the two kings down there, on their horses, with their armour and weapons, appear to her like small ants that she could easily crush under her foot. Soon enough she will do so.

She can feel the sun hit her back as it rises, and she closes her eyes, opening the gates of her mind up for her brothers. It is time.                                                                        

* * *

 

“Place your hand upon it and open your mind. I will do the same. Janine will do the rest.” Moriarty instructs him, and Sherlock nods, stepping closer to the jewel. It calls to him, the wave desperate to become a tsunami. Sherlock gently places his hand upon its surface, the rock cool under his touch. It flares with heat when his hand makes contact, but it does not burn him. Sherlock closes his eyes.

“Here we go…” Moriarty mutters under his breath, hand grasping his own jewel. He sounds genuinely excited, genuinely anxious for this to work.

Sherlock lets him think it will.                                                                                

* * *

 

Mycroft falters in bringing his sword down upon another man when his opponent seems to freeze, head tipping back. He remains defensive, catching his breath as he tries to deduce what the man is doing. Then it registers that all around him, all sounds of weapon on weapon have stopped, an eerier silence settling over the battlefield. Looking around from his vantage point on his horse, he sees that all of Magnussen’s men have for some reason stopped, all with their heads tipped back. Mycroft glances to Janine, up on the precipice, and he lets out a light sigh.

It seems their plan has failed.

Janine has one hand raised above her head, the other to her chest, and Mycroft can just about make out her words, in an ancient and forgotten language, being carried by the wind. A red light beams from her chest; the jewel hung around her neck, surely. Suddenly, a grey, cloud-like substance emits from her aloft hand, making its way to the soldiers. It splits off into smaller veins as it filters to every man and woman, being sucked up into their noses and through their mouths. Mycroft watches as the man in front of him takes one massive inhale, and then breathes no more. His head comes forward again, neck cricking, and his eyes stare directly ahead, not fixed on any point. Despite this, his weapon, and the weapons of his comrades, come up again and begin to strike against their enemies. Mycroft raises his sword to block the man, quickly swiping the other man’s blade away and sinking his own into the man’s chest.

The man does not react, simply continues raising his sword to strike Mycroft once again. Just as he had thought.

Janine has created an army of the dead.                                                                               

* * *

 

Meanwhile, in a camp on the edge of the battlefield, a man watches on, confused and in pain, as his captives seem to freeze, heads tipped back. He does not know what is happening to them, but they seem unresponsive when he shouts to get their attention, and so he takes his chance, stumbling to his feet. He groans as his many wounds flare up in protestation, but he keeps himself going, grabbing a sword from the belt of one the unresponsive guards.

He does not know a way to release the shackles from around his wrists, but the chain which connects them is long enough for him to be able to swing a sword effectively, and so he makes a dash for the open tent flap, bursting out into the new day.

He winces in the bright light, a red and oppressive radiance coming from the left side of his vision. Bringing up a hand to shield his eyes, he frowns at the strange sounding words, trying to make out the figure that stands, glowing, on the edge of the Plain.

His heart sinks as he recognises Janine, and he swallows back his pain as it dawns on him that Sherlock and John must have failed.

There is nothing left for him to do now, except fight until he can no longer stand.

He starts to run, his legs shake but he drives them onwards. If this is the last stand, he will protect Mycroft, whatever it takes.                                                                               

* * *

 

Sherlock feels an electric thrum throughout his entire body as Janine’s spell takes effect. He opens his eyes to see the jewel under his hand almost bursting with blue light. He glances to Moriarty, the man’s head tipped back, his face relaxed, a smile on his lips. Blissful. His jewel, too, is beaming, illuminating his jaw and the underside of his chin in a green glow.

“Oh, just feel that raw power!” He says.

Sherlock does, and he also feels how the jewel seems to twitch under his palm, the heat it gives off pulsing. That wave, it is now unsure of itself, ebbing and flowing, the energy not quite overpowering him now. He tightens his grip on the jewel, knowing instinctively it will be necessary if the next part of his plan is going to work. The wave is beginning to diminish, the tide is going out, and it will be replaced with a new storm in a moment.

Moriarty must feel it as Sherlock’s power begins to dwindle, for a crease forms between his brows and his smile fades. He tips his head forward, looking to Sherlock in confusion. Sherlock cannot fight the smirk that comes to his lips, and Moriarty’s eyes widen, lip curling.

“What? What is it?!”

“It is less what it is, and more what it is _not.”_ Sherlock replies, almost shouting over the roar of both the falls and the magical power coursing around them. “You didn’t think, did you? About the effects that not only the jewel has on the user, but that the user has on the jewel?”

“What do you mean?!”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You have been so tied to your own jewel for all of your life, that you never paused to consider what might happen were the owner not taken down the same path in life, not been bestowed with the thing that sits in all Moriarty hearts. Hate.”

Moriarty stares at him for a moment, until he is distracted by the sudden diminishing of light from his jewel. It flickers back to life again, but it is not as bright as before. Sherlock feels the pull in his chest, and a pain begins to build behind his eyes. He ignores it, persevering with all he wants to say.

“I spent a lot of time, in those early days at Appledore, thinking how I could be a worthy competitor to you, what cards could I bring to the table, to make myself like you are. But I was also learning, in that time, from another man, about what it means to go through life without losing sight of yourself. And I have to say, his influence was a lot greater than yours. Maybe perhaps you should not have left me alone with him, to work it all out for myself, maybe you should have told me from the beginning, when I was confused and in desperate need of something to give me an identity, a purpose. For I can tell you that John’s influence on me is like the sun that rises on the horizon now; he is my conductor of light, has shown me who I want to be. And you… well, you are the night that falls after John’s sun; through your actions, you have shown me what I do not want to be.”

“And what is that?” Moriarty spits through gritted teeth.

“No better than the people who kept me in chains for eighteen years. Oh, you may have the riches and the influence and the power to put yourself above them, but I do not fear you any more than I feared them. Not now. Because your power does not come from a place of stability, of reason… no, it comes from a primal urge to conquer.” Sherlock scoffs, looking Moriarty up and down and shaking his head. “You try so hard to be better than anyone else, but you are far worse than all others that walk this earth. Even Magnussen. You think you have been clever with your _cleverness,_ but really… your heart has ruled your head and your head has found your heart lacking in anything worth being in this life. You’re a fairy-tale villain, consigned to your own world and no one else’s. And you were so stupid on just one particular thing…”

“And what’s that?” Moriarty spits, irises now pin pricks in his eyes, nostrils flaring.

“Thinking your bloodline could rule me! You forget, I am half a Holmes, and that is the name I took before, and now chose to take again. I am not Sherlock Moriarty, I am _Sherlock Holmes_ , and that bloodline runs through me stronger than your own. And it will be your undoing!”                                                              

* * *

 

Lestrade’s feet are thundering against the ground as he fights the extra inertia gravity gives him as he hurries down in the Plain. Around him, soldier battles soldier, Mycroft’s men severely overwhelmed as Magnussen’s refuse to break, refuse to die. This is hopeless, he realises, a suicide mission. Still, if he is to die, he will die by the sides of the people he loves.

He spots Mycroft, still astride his horse, slashing and sparring with his sword, helmet knocked off his head, ginger hair catching the sunlight. Lestrade makes for him, pushing aside those already locked in battle, but is distracted by something that catches his eye just to Mycroft’s side.

It seems that Magnussen is trying his best to get to Mycroft, for one valiant final fight between the two rulers, but is being overwhelmed by a soldier of Mycroft’s army, who stands in his way. Images come to Lestrade’s mind, of the weeks he spent in Magnussen’s employ, of the suffering he has caused many, of the torture he put Sherlock through. His pulse jumps in his neck and he tightens the hold on his sword. Mycroft can hold his own, Lestrade has a score to settle with King Charles Augustus Magnussen.

He jumps in just in time to block a blow from Magnussen’s sword that would have sliced his opponent in two. Pushing against Magnussen’s blade he manages to push the other man back, making him stumble.

“Well, well, well,” Magnussen says, catching his breath. “My little prisoner. How heroic of you to try and fight against me. A shame you will not win against the army of the dead!”

“That spell had no effect on you, you are just as mortal as the rest of us!” The voice of Lestrade’s ally says, and he turns, wide eyed, as he recognises the voice, a little shaken by as steely as usual.

“Molly! What are you doing fighting?!” Lestrade is agog; Molly is a physician, not a fighter!

“All hands on deck! What, didn’t know I could fight with a sword, Greg?” She says with a small grin, blocking another blow from Magnussen. “Now help me with this wretch!”

Lestrade spares a quick, admirable smile before he joins her in taking down the vilest monster to every walk the earth.

They have Magnussen overwhelmed when everything suddenly starts to change.                                                                        

* * *

 

“You are a blood traitor! You are so weak!” Moriarty screams, the veins in his face becoming more and more prominent as the blood pulses ever faster through them. As Sherlock had hoped, the dwindling of power is having the same effect on Moriarty as it is on him, and hopefully is on Janine, too; draining the life, the power supply, out of him. “I had hoped for so much more!”

“You can keep on hoping in death!” Sherlock shouts back, his breath catching in his throat. The pulsing behind his eyes is sickening. The power from the Moriarty blood within him is getting to its last dregs, and it almost feels as if he is suffocating, the connection with the jewel growing weaker, brittle, as if it could snap at any moment. “You forgot to realise one thing, in all the searching and looking you did, you forgot to look right in front of your eyes! Didn’t think reading a book written by a man who has lived for a thousand years would do you any good, did you? Thought you knew it all! But you should have seen! ‘Should a person not of pure Moriarty blood touch the jewels during the incantation, the effects shall be reversed and the cause to the casters irreversible. Mortality is the enemy of immortality, and it shall be their punishment for any wrongdoing.’”

“THIS IS NOT FAIR!” Moriarty screams. His face is waxen, a pale ash colour. It makes his veins stand out even more. “The Moriarty bloodline is supreme! Death has no place for us!”

“No one can outrun death! Not even you!” Sherlock says. _Not even me._ His heart is beating erratically now, his fingers turning numb. The wave from the jewel has diminished and now his half-blood rains down, extinguishing the connection and cutting off the spell.

Moriarty begins to break apart, then, almost as if he were a fictional being, wrought from pages, with no substance within him. Skin, bone, muscle, sinew, all split apart as easily as breaking a loaf of bread. His face cracks like porcelain. Sherlock is reminded of the cups in Irene Adler’s front parlour, of drinking tea with John. He had barely known, then, what he was going to do, but now, he does not regret his decision. He shakes his head. Why is he thinking of Irene Adler’s front parlour? The lack of oxygen must be getting to him.

Sherlock’s own body is fighting not to give up, although the pain within him is all centred on his chest and his head, focused inwards rather than outwards, his impure bloodline stopping him from splitting apart like Moriarty is now. John should be here soon. He hopes he will not be too late.                                                                         

* * *

 

On the battlefield, Janine falters as the jewel around her neck begins to flicker, the ethereal light within diminishing. She reaches out within her mind for her brother, but all she can feel is the blood rushing through her veins. She is cut off. She cannot feel James!

Something must have gone wrong with the spell, she realises, as the incantation suddenly stops and then it begins to reverse, the power being sucked back into her. It is too much to take, and she screams, stumbling backwards.  

She can barely register that it is too late, that what she and James have been hoping for all their lives will come to nothing, before her body is breaking apart, the sheer force of the incantation not being held by her physical form. Her blood feels as if it is boiling inside her, ready to bubble over the sides as limbs is ripped from limb, bones turning to ash.

Her body has disintegrated before it can even hit the ground.                                                                           

* * *

 

Lestrade’s attack on Magnussen wavers as around them Magnussen’s soldiers halt their fighting once again, weapons dropping to the ground. Their king is as equally bemused as Lestrade, and he watches with unrestrained horror his army begins to crumble apart, bodies becoming nothing but ash. High above them, a scream, almost like that of a bird, rings out, before that voice, too, falls silent. Lestrade catches just a glance of Janine’s figure as it seems to fall backwards before it blinks out of existence.

“No,” Magnussen’s whispers, head darting around almost comically as his army literally vanishes. “No, no, NO!”

“It seems my brother has gotten the better of the Moriartys.” Mycroft shouts, voice calm, confident. Still upon his horse, he trots towards them, narrow face regal. Ever the statesman, even in the face of a total victory. “And now, the house of Holmes will get the better of you, Charles. Do you not see it? How fickle your followers are? You allowed them to be captured in a spell and could do nothing about it. There is no loyalty to you. Only fear, and hate. Let’s see what that gets you, shall we?”

With the simple raise of Mycroft’s hand, the Sherrinford soldiers surrounding them turn on Magnussen, weapons raised, advancing on him. Their numbers grow as those who have stood around bewildered with by the vanishing of their foes catch on to the situation. The final enemy to defeat.

Lestrade and Molly hang back. Molly has done enough fighting today, for someone who follows the physician’s code of care and compassion, and she stabs her sword into the grass, wiping the sweat from her brow. Lestrade feels weary, suddenly, although he is delirious with joy that Sherlock and John have actually done it! He turns to Mycroft, who is staring down at him, face still as placid as ever but his eyes soft as they reunite. It has been months.

“Gregory. My, my, look what they have done to you.”

“It was worth it.” Lestrade replies truthfully. The pain of his wounds may sting but the sting is a good one; it was a battle worth enduring. “It got us here.”

Mycroft hums, gracing Lestrade with an uncharacteristic smile, before both men turn to watch the hordes descend upon Magnussen. They may not even have to use their weapons; by this point the man could simply be trampled underneath the mass of people. That, as Mycroft finds out later, is exactly what happens. The man’s death is a significant one, but it is a quick one, a humiliating one.

King Charles Augustus Magnussen is killed by the sheer force of the land of Sherrinford, a land he thought would never outdo him.                                                                             

* * *

 

John can see it, the tomb, in the distance, and he spurs his horse on ever faster, the poor animal probably exhausted from their dash. Next to the tomb, he can see two figures, and his heart lurches as he recognises Sherlock’s wraith-like figure. There is a strange glow surrounding him and the other person, surely James Moriarty, and John hesitates in calling Sherlock’s name. This is what the Queen had warned him about.

It seems he has arrived at the very end of proceedings, however, for as soon as he spots Moriarty the man is gone, vanishing into a thousand pieces, and Sherlock is falling to the ground. The light around him fades, and so do does John’s optimism that maybe they could avoid the worse. It seems not.

“ _Sherlock!”_                                                                                    

* * *

 

Sherlock watches as James Moriarty’s eyes fix on him, speaking all the man cannot say. They are dark with anger, with betrayal, with sadness. They are the last thing Sherlock sees of Moriarty before the man is ripped asunder by his own power. His body is scattered into ashes before he hits the ground, getting caught up in the wind and carried over the falls to mingle forever with the water.

Sherlock’s heart is giving up the ghost, now, and even the pain behind his eyes seems muted as all sensation is lost to him, his body becoming numb. His mind is calm in those last moments, as the presence of the jewel finally leaves him and he falls to the ground, like the strings have been cut on a marionette. He can think on only of how proud John will hopefully be of him, for succeeding in destroying the Moriartys, and their jewels. He can think only of John, of the man’s kind eyes; they had been the first thing he’d noticed about him, those eyes.

He allows himself to indulge as his vision tunnels, blackness creeping around the edges, to sneak into John’s room in his mind palace, and seek out all the man has done for him, wrap it around him like a blanket. He sincerely hopes John will not join him in death any time soon, but oh, how he will await the day they are re-united. If not in life, then maybe in death. Sherlock is alright with either of those options now, resignation not coming as a foe, but as a friend.

He spares one last thought, a lazy, delirious thought, on how Dartoyle might write about him, in the chronicles and poems to come. Perhaps he will be known as the man with three identities, or the man who lived only long enough as himself to sacrifice his life, or, he might be the man who died three times, running out of luck at lucky number three.

Whatever it is, he knows his story will be singular, unique, and lords, above all, he hopes it is remembered.

His eyes flutter shut for the last time, and he loses himself to the darkness, allowing himself one last silly daydream; he thinks maybe he can hear John’s voice.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Kudos and comments greatly appreciated.


	24. Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of past non-con, description of a dead body

“ _Sherlock!”_ John screams, jumping from his horse, legs almost going out from under him in his haste to get to the other man’s side. Those horrid little demons play with him, in his mind, playing flashes of the memory of his sister and Mary’s death, but something within him snaps back into place, his training from his army days. It forces him to remain calm, even as he throws himself down at Sherlock’s side, placing his fingers to the man’s pulse point on the side of his neck. He can feel nothing.

“No, Sherlock, come on!” John says. The wind seems to whistle in his ears as he remembers Sherlock’s strange question, blurted out suddenly, of the previous night.

‘ _Do you know how to restart a heart?’_

John had answered with an affirmative that time, and he would certainly see that answer through now.

Kneeling upright he begins the process of pounding down on Sherlock’s chest with the balls of his hands. Breathing air into Sherlock’s mouth is a mock imitation of the loving kisses they have shared, and John pushes away that part of him that wants to sob. He is Doctor John Watson now, and he will save this man, screw fate or whatever divine intervention that thinks this is how it should be!

“Come on Sherlock!” He mutters and he pounds down on his chest again, but Sherlock’s face remains unnaturally still and pale, eyes closed. He looks almost peaceful. John does not feel bad about ruining that peace. “Sherlock, come on!”

_Why must the man always be so stubborn?_ He thinks wildly, desperation beginning to claw at his edges. How long before he gives up the ghost and accepts this? _Never,_ he replies, _I will not give up on him!_

The desperation is creeping into his voice, playing with his voice box, almost making him cry out. He breathes into Sherlock’s mouth once again, a sob catching in his throat. His arms are tired, his shoulder is howling in pain, but he cannot give up on him, will not allow himself to even entertain the thought.

His body decides for him, decides enough is enough, and his arms give out when he goes to give Sherlock the kiss of life one more time, and he collapses forwards, his head resting against Sherlock’s chest.

He is aware that the more time that passes, the less likely his chances will be.

But Sherlock is a man who has defied all that has stood in his way! Surely, he can defy one last opponent? Although death is anyone’s greatest adversary….

But surely Sherlock could?

Surely?

Surely….

“Please, Sherlock,” he whispers. “Please, for me…”

_Don’t be dead._

Please.

John presses his ear against Sherlock’s chest; he can hear no heartbeat.

Please.

….

…..

……

A gasping breath, and beneath the flesh and bone beneath John’s ear a heart begins beating its rhythm again. It is weak and slightly out of tempo, but it is enough.

“Sherlock!” He cries, raising his head, cupping the man’s face in his hands.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter, eyes rolling back into his head a couple of time before he gets a grip on reality, his unfocussed eyes staring up at the sky. John taps his cheek lightly, grabs his attention, and those cerulean eyes, so deep, an ever changing miasma of colour, so _alive,_ look at him, focussing on him properly.

“John…” Sherlock murmurs.

“Yes!” John says, a laugh in his throat and tears in his eyes, tracing tracks down his cheeks, but he does not care. “Yes, Sherlock, it’s me.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock says, eyes closing for a moment before blinking open. He swallows, and John can see his pulse, unsteady yet present, jumping in his throat. “We did it.”

“ _You_ did it, you mean!” John says, and he cannot resist placing a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips. A proper kiss, not one that means to give life, but one that is full of life. John is filled with the joy that they are both _alive!_ “Moriarty, he’s dead! The jewel, you destroyed it!”

John glances over to the tomb. The canopy still stands, but the tomb itself is cracked, falling inwards into the hollow centre. The casing which would have held the jewel is now empty.

“Moriary didn’t see it coming…” Sherlock murmurs, taking an unsteady breath.

“Neither did I, thanks for that….” John says, but his tone is not scathing.

“You’re cross…” Sherlock says.

“Yes, good deduction!” John says, but he is laughing. “But I’ll have all the time in the world to be cross at you later. For now, I’m just so bloody grateful you’re alive.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock smiles, allowing John to kiss him once more, but his eyes are fluttering shut again, sleep calling to him.  

“Sherlock.” John calls, panic gripping at him now. “Try to stay awake, yes?”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock replies, half-asleep. His eyes stay shut. “I’ll try….”

John knows it is no good, and he allows Sherlock to fall unconscious; he must be exhausted. They need to get to shelter, give Sherlock time to recover. It finally hits him that it is all over.

There is the sound of thundering horse hooves behind him, but John knows it is friends, not foes, and so he allows himself to pick Sherlock up, holding him in his arms, keeping him warm with his own body heat.

He has all the time in the world to hold him like this, now.                                                                                 

* * *

 

Sherlock is aware he is moving, and not of his own free will. The thought makes him panic for a moment, thinking that Magnussen has somehow got ahold of him, but there is a soothing hand running through his short hair and a voice which is a reassuring lighthouse to him in this nothingness. He cannot open his eyes, and consciousness seems to come to him in waves.

At some point, he is on a horse, and then he disappears to somewhere unknown, and suddenly he is in someone’s arms, their voice calling out instructions. At some point he is lain down on a comfortable bed, and he feels the covers go over him, cocooning him in their warmth. He allows himself to sink down in them and to, for the first time in his life, properly sleep.                                                                              

* * *

 

He wakes to bright sunlight, streaming in from somewhere to his right. Instinctively, he puts out a hand to block the bright rays, annoyed that they have torn him from somewhere warm and peaceful, where nothing matters, and he can simply _be._ It is no good, no matter how much he tries to return to that place, he cannot, and so he reluctantly opens his eyes, waking properly.

What greets him is a room more palatial in size than should befit a bed chamber. A high vaulted ceiling is supported by pillars of a gleaming white marble. The room is filled with comfortable furnishings: a small sofa next to a gaping fireplace, a fire crackling away within it; a desk by a large double-arched window, divided by a colonette and paned with clear glass; an oak dresser beautiful carved with a fleur-de-lis pattern; a large oak table, meant for dining, lined with more chairs than Sherlock has guests to sit in them. The walls are off a light stone, most likely what had woken him, seeing as the light seems to bounce of all the surfaces. It is bright and airy and a complete contrast to his chambers in Appledore Castle; he decides he likes them very much.

The bed he lies in is expansive, a massive blue canopy rising above him, embroidered with birds of varying species. He can spread his arms wide and still not meet the edges of the mattress. He does just that, stretching his limbs out and feeling his joints pop. Old scars flare up, making themselves known, but Sherlock pushes the pain away underneath the floorboards of his mind palace. He doesn’t need to deal with the physical wounds; John is his doctor now.

Sheer coincidence must drive John through the door at that moment, for the large pair set into the wall to the left on the opposite side of the room open and in comes the man himself, yawning so wide his jaw clicks. When he looks up to see Sherlock staring at him, his haggard face lights up.

“Sherlock!”

As John approaches the bed Sherlock can deduce the man has not slept properly in three days, going by the beard growth and the bags under his blood shot eyes. How long has he been asleep?

John has sat himself down on the bed by Sherlock’s hips and is leaning over his partner with a smile on his face. “God it’s good to see you awake!”

“How long have I been asleep.” Sherlock asks, his voice rough, scratching at his throat.

John pours him a goblet of water, a jug resting on the bedside table, as he answers. “Three days. It was pure exhaustion. The events of the last few weeks catching up with you. You ran a small fever for a little while, but it soon died down. You look much better.”

“I feel it.” Sherlock says, not quite a lie; he is still a little battered, feeling like a worn leather shoe, but there is a renewed energy within him, as if he has recharged. He takes a sip from the goblet, the water blissfully cool on his throat. Out of curiosity, he reaches out, in his mind, for any feel of the jewel or of James or Janine Moriarty, but he is met with a blank void, a space no longer inhabited. So, it did all work. Nothing went awry. Unless…

“The battle, did it…?”

John nods. “Magnussen’s men turned to dust as soon as you broke the spell. Magnussen was soon after overwhelmed by Mycroft’s forces. He is dead.”

Sherlock nods slowly, taking in the news. He supposes he should feel a sense of relief, knowing that monster cannot hurt him anymore, but a small, niggling anxiety plays in the back of his head, its tendrils poking out from beneath the floorboards of his mind palace. He needs closure on this matter, to truly accept it.

“Was his body recoverable?” He asks.

John frowns, looking displeased. “Yes. Mycroft has been waiting for you to wake before he disposes of it.”

“I want to see it.” Sherlock says.

John sighs. “Your brother said you would.”

Sherlock frowns. “You’re displeased.”

John bites his lip. “No, not displeased, just….” He smiles, reaching to take one of Sherlock’s hands. “wanting to take you away from that man, from that chapter of your life.”

Sherlock nods. “You said so yourself, John, it’s a process. This is another step in the process.”

Sherlock speaks those words with full sincerity. The bothersome tendril is proof to him that whilst his body has had a chance to heal, the wounds done to him by Magnussen will take a longer time to heal. He is not afraid, though. Well, he is a bit, thankful that no nightmares, that he can remember anyway, have ruined his healing sleep. But he knows what steps he needs to take to heal, and John is here, and will not be leaving, and that makes almost anything achievable.

John is beaming at him now, and there are tears in his eyes. Sherlock frowns, and tentatively brings their conjoined hands up to John’s face, cradling it. John’s eyes close, the tears taking their chance and running down his face. He sniffs.

“John…” Sherlock starts, but has no idea what to say.

“Sorry,” John mutters. “Sorry, I just…. it’s been along few days. Few weeks, really. But, just seeing you, how far you’ve come, what you’ve overcome, I…”

“And it’s you I have to thank for that, for coming on the journey with me.”

John shrugs. “I would have come. Anytime, any when. Maybe it’s fate making me say that, but even if it is, I would say it anyway.”

“Oh I don’t think fate can constrain you, John Watson.” Sherlock says fondly, and John rolls his eyes, a watery smile on his face. He closes his mouth, biting his lip, looking as if he wants to say something. Sherlock hesitates, before asking, “Are you still cross at me?”

“Yes.” John mutters, but his tone is so petulant it makes Sherlock smile. John notices and smiles back. “Don’t think you’re getting off lightly, Sherlock Holmes, I’m still cross you didn’t let me in on what you were going to do back there, running off to face Moriarty alone.”

“I did it to protect you.” Sherlock weakly defends.

John sighs, “What did I say? You don’t have to protect me…”

“No, but I wanted to. Because…” Sherlock starts, the words getting lost on his tongue.

“Because?” John prompts.

Sherlock sighs, and looks into John’s eyes, so trusting and open. He realises, lying here with this man in front of him, in these comfortable chambers, having survived everything they’ve been through, there is not going to be a better time to say it.

“Because I love you. And it’s because of you I understand what that means. Love.”

John smiles, bowing his head. “Look at you, going all soppy. When we first met, you said being alone protected you.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, regret and embarrassment flooding him. “I did, yes, but you’ve taught me a lot about human nature. You’ve taught me that emotion does not have to be a weakness, that in fact it can make you stronger. I didn’t really know then, what it meant to live, but you’ve shown me that emotion is a large part of living, and that is why I am confessing my emotions to you, to show you, how much I’ve changed, how much I’m not the man you first knew, you don’t have to worry about me getting bored of this… _us,_ because I’m not sure I could live without you John and I-”

“Sherlock?” John says, cutting off Sherlock’s rant. Sherlock’s mouth closes, teeth clacking together. His cheeks flush red with even further embarrassment; fumbling like that…. “Sherlock,” John repeats, loud enough to get Sherlock to look at him. “I love you too.”

Sherlock smiles then, and John leans forward, capturing their lips in a kiss. They linger together for a moment, just savouring each other and the depths of their emotions, before they break apart.

“Well that’s good because otherwise I would have to ask you to leave…” Sherlock jokes and John laughs, head tipping back slightly. Sherlock falters as his mind suddenly flashes back to how Moriarty’s head had tipped back when the incantation had begun to work, how blissed out on his own power the man had been; it was almost perverse. He pushes the memory away to the deep dungeon depths of his mind palace; he has more to work through it seems. Remembering the spell Sherlock takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I did not tell you about my plan with Moriarty. And I’m sorry that I did not tell you about the jewel, before, when we were at the castle in Appledore. Some of my methods may not have been the best, I may not have been thinking straight, should have trusted you more, but there’s nothing that can change that now, and that it’s gotten us both here, alive, well…. I’m not _that_ sorry.”

John squeezes his hand, nodding. “I understand. There was a lot going on, you had a lot of things to figure out, and what you did came not from a bad place. We both did things we regret, but that’s fine, because we’ve worked through them. Just… I would prefer to be kept in the loop in the future, yeah?”

Sherlock nods.  “I trust you more than anyone.”

John lips wobble, and he takes a deep breath before he speaks. “You are not the only one to have gained so much and learnt a lot from all of this. Before you, I feared I was cursed. Everyone I loved seemed to die: my sister, my mother, but, you, you’ve overcome death three times, technically! You allowed me to help you, healing those old wounds of mine, when I could not save my sister, and you have also shown me the depths of human affection. I’ve learnt at the same time as you what it is to love someone, truthfully. I may have helped you with a lot of things, but we found each other through our own sufferings, and we have come to love each other equally.”

John’s words are sincere, and Sherlock takes them to heart, treasuring them like a precious jewel. But before they both get too bogged down and stuck in their own words, he playfully rolls his eyes and tuts. “Oh, John don’t be so poetic. You’re worse than Dartoyle!”

John chuckles, raising his eyebrow. “The man did not foresee this; this is on our own terms! Or, I certainly hope he didn’t.”

Sherlock does not mention to him the ‘conductor of light’ phrase; Dartoyle is not his John’s favourite person, it might just irritate him even more.

“No,” He simply agrees. “Some things cannot be foreseen or predicted.”

 “And we have done some amazing things… I can only hope the adventures continue.” John says, his thumb stroking the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“Oh, I’m sure they will.” Sherlock says.

They are interrupted at that moment by a rapping of a knuckle on the door. Quick, heavy; this person is impatient, Sherlock deduces. The door opens, and in strides a tall man with ginger hair that is beginning to recede a little, although he can be no more than thirty. He carries a little weight, but Sherlock knows that is genetic, on Siger Holmes’s side of the family, for even though the image of him in his memories had been blurry Sherlock would recognise this man out of a crowd of thousands. Mycroft. Following on behind him is a battered but smiling Lestrade, and Sherlock feels his heart skip a beat to realise the man did not die at the hands of Magnussen’s men, in that godforsaken castle.

“Ah, Sherlock, awake I see. Nice to have you with us.” Mycroft says, his voice patrician, irritatingly so. Mycroft is not addressing a horde of nobles; he does not have to sound so uptight. Sherlock realises this is probably what he is always like, if the tales told by Lestrade and his mother are anything to go by.

“Mycroft.” He says, nodding his head. When he meets Mycroft’s eyes, the older man’s do something funny, flickering between emotional and distant, as if he is trying to turn his emotions off but is not quite succeeding. Maybe Sherlock’s former predilection to doing something similar had run in the blood?

He can sense Mycroft is uncomfortable, and by the smirk on Lestrade’s face as he stands behind the man, affection is not something that comes naturally to Mycroft. To lighten the mood, he puts on an air of thinly veiled disgust and says, “Still having trouble keeping the weight off, I see.”

Lestrade puts a hand to his mouth to stifle the laugh that threatens to burst out of him, and John raises his eyebrows at Sherlock. Mycroft’s eyes have gone wide, but he does not look displeased, rather, he looks thankful, and his body relaxes, and he drawls in reply, “And you are still as think as a rake, I see.”

“Hmm, slavery is not the best friend to nutrition.” Sherlock replies, and Mycroft’s face wobbles in its conviction of a smarmy expression at the mention of slavery. Sherlock realises, in that moment, that Mycroft is essentially the man responsible for the continued practice of slavery in the land, although the laws surrounding its permittance were most likely held up more by his father than him, but it leads to a slight air of awkwardness. Sherlock swallows a lump in his throat, finding the words to alter the situation. “Although, from what Lestrade has told me, I was not there due to your lack of trying to find me.”

Mycroft nods, and perhaps it is Sherlock’s imagination, but he thinks he sees a flash of relief in Mycroft’s eyes before it is hidden away again beneath his airs and graces. “I did what I could with the resources available. And I believe it is you I have to thank, little brother, for getting rid of both the Moriartys and Magnussen in one fell swoop.”

“Not just me, John as well.” Sherlock asserts, and he nods his head in the other direction. John bites the inside of his cheek, instinctively raising his head as Mycroft surveys him, ever the soldier ready for inspection. Mycroft must find him passable, as he hums and nods.

“You are quite close to my brother, Doctor Watson?”

John nods. “Yes. Incredibly close.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow and Lestrade rolls his eyes, coming to stand by him. “Oh, Mycroft don’t start. John is a perfectly good chap. What did you want Sherlock to do, find no one to help him when there was an ounce of goodness within Appledore?”

“He worked for Magnussen _and_ Moriarty…” Mycroft murmurs and John’s face darkens.

“I’m still here, before you continue to talk like I’m not. And yes, I did work for both of those monsters, but I gave it all up in a second for your brother and do you know why? Because it was not worth a thing. The money? Nothing. The loyalty to the crown? Absolutely not.” John states, tone firm, frowning at Mycroft’s distrust. Sherlock cannot stop the smile which comes to his face.

Mycroft looks thoroughly chastised, and he offers John a polite, if not sincere, smile. “Apologies. You are quite right, Sherlock. Doctor Watson was a large help in this mission, and I will reward him for such work.”

“Oh, you don’t need to reward me, I don’t want…” John begins to protest but Mycroft is already speaking.

“A position as a court physician here, if you’d like. Keeping you by my brother’s side without having you become loathe at your lack of purpose.”

“Oh,” John says, mouth agape and eyebrows raised. “Yes, that sounds… good. Great, actually.”

Mycroft nods. “Very well. It shall be arranged. I shall have you introduced to Doctor Hooper, my personal physician.”

“She’s also fought in battle.” Lestrade adds, directing his words at John. “When I got to the battlefield she was in combat with Magnussen.”

“Wow….” John says absentmindedly, blindsided by what Lestrade has told him. Sherlock feels the same. He would very much like to meet this Doctor Hooper.

“Speaking of Magnussen,” Mycroft says, looking to Sherlock. “I have his body, little brother. I thought perhaps you would like to see it? I have been told of his… actions and intentions towards you and would like to do what I can to reassure you that that monster will never harm you again.”

There is a venom to Mycroft’s tone, his words being spat out. Sherlock knows it was inevitable, that more people find out exactly what Magnussen did to him and had planned to do to him, but it doesn’t make it any less shameful. To think they know how he was overpowered by the man, it speaks volumes to them about who he used to be: the shadow of a man…

Mycroft’s next words, however, bring him out of this spiral. The man leans forward, eyes sincere, darkened by the intensity of what he is saying. “The man died an insignificant death, trampled beneath the feet of my soldiers. He was worth nothing more, and he did not deserve the life blood given to him. I only wish you’d been there to see it, brother mine.”

Sherlock nods, and finds he has to fight back the prickling behind his eyes. “Thank you.” He says solemnly.

Mycroft seems to evaluate him, then, hesitating, a movement that does not come natural to his frame. All of a sudden, he leans forward, pulling Sherlock into a hug. It is extremely awkward, one of Sherlock’s hands still holding John’s and the other his goblet of water, so he cannot return it. It is well meant, however, and was obviously an uncharacteristic thing for Mycroft to do, and so Sherlock appreciates the odd expression of his relief and affection.

Mycroft pulls back quickly, smoothing down his fine doublet of blue velvet, not meeting anyone’s eyes, despite Lestrade pointed look and smile of surprise. “Perhaps you might relate to me, brother mine, your story on how exactly the Moriarty jewels and their owners were destroyed? Following your little… deviation from the plan, I should love to hear the details.” There is a slight tone of consternation, a hint of anger behind Mycroft’s tone, but like most things the man expresses, it is all hidden behind that imperious façade. He smiles, however, and the anger is gone. “Another time, though, you must rest, and I must see to matters concerning Appledore.” He pauses, the thumb of his right-hand fiddling with the signet ring which sits on his index finger. It is the same as the ring Lestrade had given to Sherlock, back in Appledore; John must have it somewhere, he assumes. “Brother mine… technically, as the widower of the deceased King Charles, you are the heir to the throne of Appledore-”

“Have it, I don’t want it.” Sherlock waves him off. It feels strange to speak of a throne, the guidance of power that rules thousands of people, as if it is the slice of bread from a loaf, but Sherlock is tired and has learnt that he very much does not want to be in charge of anyone but himself; power over others is a deadly thing, if not put into the right hands, and Sherlock does not think his are compatible. “Unite the kingdoms, bring peace etcetera. I’m sure Dartoyle knows something about it, if you check with him.”

Mycroft smirks then, but he nods his thanks. “Thank you, brother mine.”

He excuses himself to take his leave, but as he gets to the door, Sherlock calls out to him, remembering one last thing. “When you turn your attention to reviewing and reforming laws, I would like to be involved with those concerning slavery. I would like to see it abolished.”

Mycroft hesitates for a moment, his eyes flicking around the room as he bounces onto the balls of his feet. Eventually though, he nods with an awkward smile. “Very well.”

And then he is gone, his footsteps echoing in the corridor outside the room.

Lestrade turns to them, a beaming smile on his face. There is a bruise above his eye, and his lip is split. Sherlock frowns, taking a gulp of water from the goblet. Lestrade, tortured and interrogated for information, no doubt. James Moriarty’s sadism had known no bounds, then.

“I think he was worried you might blame him, for not finding you sooner.” Lestrade says. “It’s hard to tell with Mycroft, but I’ve known him long enough to know he was a little nervous, coming here.”

Sherlock hums. He cannot bring himself to raise the subject of whose fault is what and who is to blame for this; all that has happened is past, and the only thing he wants to do now is move on.

“Let me know, when you want to see the bastard’s body and I’ll take you down there.” Lestrade says, scratching the back of his head.

“I suppose you have your old position back now, then?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes!” Lestrade says, delighted. He puffs his chest out. “Captain of the Royal Guard. Serving His Royal Highness King Mycroft Holmes.”

Sherlock blinks. “’King’? Not Regent?”

Lestrade nods, biting his lip. “King Siger, his mind was long gone before any of the Moriartys and Magnussen’s plans came to light. When I left months ago, he was in a bad way, and it seems he caught a fever and that finally put him out of his misery. Strangely, it was on the day of the battle he crossed to the other world.”

Sherlock does not think this is strange, he thinks this is entirely predictable. The tide has ebbed, and a new wave is coming, the workings of the world are reflected in nature and work as such. There is a new tide coming into shore.

“There’ll be a massive coronation soon, for Mycroft. Although, plans might be held off now, if he is to rule as joint ruler of both lands.” Lestrade contemplates. It seems everything is a little up in the air, still, following the battle. Sherlock is not sure he is ready to attend a coronation, to be seen in public by eyes that will surely look out for him in particular. He hopes there are delays.  

“How is Anthea?” John asks, and Sherlock suddenly remembers the woman they had deserted, her arm injured, perhaps beyond repair.

Lestrade nods. “Yes. Resting. Although, she cannot feel her injured arm at all, and Molly is speaking of paralysation….”

John grimaces, and Sherlock bows his head.

“I’ve had word from Irene Adler, she is coming to be with her.” Lestrade says. Sherlock raises his eyebrows; he had not realised the two women were so close, he had assumed, wrongly, that the tryst was a passing thing, picked up only when Anthea was in Langley. Perhaps until all these events it had been.

“Right, well, I’ll be getting off, leave you to rest. I should warn you though, Sherlock, half the castle wants to see you. Your mother demands you dine with her soon, and Lady Hudson keeps ordering all sorts of cakes to be baked….” Lestrade says, patting Sherlock’s hand briefly before turning to leave.

John laughs, and his hand tightens over Sherlock’s, a silent promise to stand by Sherlock, and take his side if he would rather no doing anything. He tightens his grip in return.

Once Lestrade has left, John turns to him, tired eyes fond, searching for something. “You feel no trace of the Moriarty’s at all?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Nothing. They are gone now.” His eyes grow distant, however, if he begins to wonder whether they might not be the only ones with the ability to control nature for their own will, whether this a way, some scientific process through which Sherlock could break it down and analyse and experiment….

But those are thoughts for later, and he gestures for John to join him under the covers, the man taking up his usual position, chest to Sherlock’s back, arms wrapped around his lanky frame. For now, he feels as if he could sleep a little more, and John certainly looks like he needs it.

They have all the time in the world.                                                                                              

* * *

 

The catacomb walls radiate with cold, giving the underground labyrinth an even creepier feel which it certainly does not need. Surrounded by the old bones of his ancestors, all hidden in tombs of marble of their own, Sherlock is grateful, in a strange way, that his tomb had been placed out in the open, in the clear air. If he were to have been trapped down here for eternity, he would not have been happy about it.

He can feel John’s worry like a tangible hand of agitation in the air, and he gives the man a long look when he shoves Sherlock’s fur cloak even further over his shoulder. John raises his hands in surrender, not looking sorry at all. Sherlock takes his hand, declaring that that will help warm him up.

It is the day following when he had finally awoken, and Sherlock has not wanted to put off this unpleasant but necessary task any longer. Lestrade is leading them down the deep depths of the catacombs under Musgrave Palace, to where the body of Charles Augustus Magnussen awaits him.

Like most of Musgrave Palace, the catacombs have high ceilings, feeling airy even in the oppressive world of the underground. The entire Palace and the citadel which stretches beyond seem airier than Appledore, the white stone walls of the palace, with its multitude of towers and turrets, reflecting the natural light and making the whole place less oppressive. The bustle of the town can be heard from the battlements, the tops of thatched roofs poking over from behind the palace walls, and it seems daunting to him, but he is eager to explore it, perhaps a little later in the day, to really get a feel for the place.  

“Here we are, gentlemen.” Lestrade says, leading them through an archway and into a rectangular space with torches emitting dull light hammered to the walls. There are two helmeted guards on duty, and they bow to Sherlock. He squirms, but his attention is quickly caught by the cloth covered lump on the cold slab in the centre of the room. He can just see boots poking out from underneath the covering.

His heart lurches in his chest, and he tightens his grip on John’s hand. The man steps a little closer, until their shoulders are touching. “You don’t have to do this…” John murmurs, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“No. I do.”

He nods to Lestrade, who, with a grim face, comes forward and pulls the cloth away, revealing Magnussen’s face.

Moriarty’s words come back to Sherlock then, about how a king is just a puppet, because in the low light of the catacombs Magnussen’s waxy skin looks less human than like the surface of a marionette painted to appear human. His eyes are closed, and Sherlock can see, trailing off into the shadows of the half-light, a bruise which forms all the way down the left side of his face, trailing down his neck and to the body below.

“I’ll leave the rest of him covered.” Lestrade explains quietly. “It isn’t pretty, seeing as he was trampled….”

Sherlock steps forward a little closer, taking in the unnatural slackness of Magnussen’s face, the closed, sunken eyes, how the mouth is parted just a little, those shark-like teeth bared ever so slightly. A momentary terror overtakes him, that Magnussen might leap up and grab him, and he yanks the cloth from Lestrade’s hand, pulling it fully away, despite the other man’s protestations. He hears John mutter something under his breath as the true decimation of Magnussen’s body is revealed to them, how his limbs are twisted into unnatural positions, a hand twisted all the way round. Something stirs in Sherlock’s chest, a nausea, not of the physical kind, but rather a wave of realisation, of confirmation; Magnussen is gone. So are the Moriartys. So are the chains that had trapped his wrists and ankles for eighteen years. It is all, _truly,_ over.

He cannot help himself when a sob rises from his chest, that odd feeling of nausea travelling up his body and forming as a pressure in his throat and behind his eyes, forcing out tears. He feels his legs, still weak, give out under him, and John’s strong hands catch him, both of them sinking to the floor.

It all hits him, then, how much has happened in the last few weeks, how much he has survived, and yet come out of the other side stronger, better. There is the feel of John’s hands on his shoulders, the man steady presence by his side, and Lestrade’s as well, hovering over them, and he is suddenly grateful for the cold that radiates from the walls and floor, for it grounds him to this moment, the first in which it has truly registered with him that the trials and tribulations of his former life and well and truly over.

John holds him, shushing occasionally, as Sherlock cries, rocking them backwards and forwards. It must be uncomfortable for the man to kneel on the hard floor, but he does not complain. Lestrade covers Magnussen’s body again, a low threat uttered to each of the guards not to speak a word of this.

Sherlock does not know how long it has been when he finally stops crying, gasping for breath from rattling lungs. He wipes at his face with a hand, sucking in a deep breath, finally getting his breathing under control. His episode had been embarrassing and a little uncomfortable, but he feels much better for having let out all the pain and fear and terror.

“Are you alright?” John asks.

“Yes.” Sherlock answers, and although his voice trembles a little it is sure of itself. “Yes. I am.”                                                                                   

* * *

 

It is later, and Sherlock and John stand, huddled together, overlooking the citadel and the surrounding countryside from the battlements of Musgrave Palace. The sun is setting to their left, the moon ready to take centre stage, already poised in the sky, to their right. The sky is a beautiful ombre of blues, and Sherlock’s gaze travels upwards, where the sky is as rich in colour as the ocean, stars beginning to peek out, their constellations taking shape. Sherlock wonders if there is anything Dartoyle can read in them, what they might be able to tell him.

Sherlock allows his gaze to the man stood next to him, silhouetted by the setting sun. the rays catch at John’s blonde hair, making it shine, each eyelash defined. His eyes look out into the sunset, and Sherlock wonders what he is thinking about. Being here, with John, the city of Musgrave laid out in front of him, he feels safe.

He tightens his grip on John’s hand, instinctively seeking out the other man’s warmth. There is a closeness between them not just of their hearts and minds, but of their bodies, too, and Sherlock wonders in the future if he could entertain the thought of giving himself to John, allowing the man something that was almost stolen from him. He thinks, with time, he could, and knowing the true heart of the man he would be sharing with gives him a reassurance which had not been there the first time.

It would be a wonderful thing for John, too, and Sherlock wants to give him as many wonderful things as he can. Suddenly, an idea comes to mind.

“John, there’s something I want to do for you.”                                                                                  

* * *

 

Sherlock watches on as John lays a delicate bouquet of white lilies down, placing them almost reverentially in front of the marker. It is a beautiful day, the canopy of trees filtering the sunlight, so it is not too bright and both men are covered. The spot had been John’s idea, so had the choice of stone they would use for the grave, as well as the size and engraving. Sherlock had taken it all out of the money that was now his to use as he pleased, not caring about the cost; whatever it took for John to have his peace at last.

John steps back, standing next to Sherlock, both men gazing down at the small grave peacefully, thoughtfully. It is a thick slab of white marble, standing out nicely in the woodland area; this way, no one should mistake it for anything else or attempt to destroy it or vandalise it. The engraving is simple, too, reading simply: _In Memory of Harriett Watson._ The simplicity does not mean it is not a sufficient enough marker, and Sherlock feels relief as John grabs his hand, sniffing quietly.

“Thank you, Sherlock. I needed this. I didn’t realise until now how much.”

Sherlock nods. John tears his gaze away from the grave for just a moment, enough time to take in the man next to him, his delicate features softened by the dimmed light of the woodland. Here John is, with the two people he loves most in the world; the first he could not save, and the second the one he did, his chance at redemption, his saving grace.

“We bury out ghosts, but we do not forget them, not fully.” He says quietly, turning back to look at his sister’s marker. “We remember how they have made us who we are today, how they have made us stronger. They help us to fully appreciate why we fought against them, what we had at stake that we thought worth having, worth fighting for. In never fully leaving us, they define our light, by being our shadows.”

Sherlock’s gaze is on him, and John meets it, smiling lovingly. Sherlock, who still looks thin and weary and is still chased by the dreams of a past life at night, of ‘Will’, but whose strength is growing with each day, and has saved John many times over, just as John has done for him. They are equals to each other; two sides of the same coin. There will always be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Sherlock turns to him then, glancing back at Musgrave Palace, which stands proudly in the near distance. Their horses await them, as do an armed guard, but John has never felt more freer than being here with Sherlock, freedom at last from his guilt and resignation, with the thought of countless days to come, with Sherlock by his side.

“Let’s go home.” Sherlock says, and John nods, taking his hand and leading him back to the horses, their shadows following on behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Only the epilogue to go...


	25. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of past abuse and non-con

**THREE MONTHS LATER**

* * *

 

There is a heavy knocking at the door, urgent and anxious. John groans, sleep falling away from him, until it is ever more elusive. He shoves his face further into his pillow, thinking that if he ignores the knocking at the door, then it will simply go away.

It is not that simple, however, and the knocking continues. John groans into his pillow, finally relenting and resigning himself to the fact that he will have to get up now.

“Sherlock.” He murmurs. “Wake up.”

He spreads his hand out to touch Sherlock, but he finds an empty space on the mattress next to him. Opening his eyes, John realises that the sheets on Sherlock’s side of the bed have been pulled back up, and that the mattress underneath his outstretched palm is cold to the touch.

Sherlock has not been to bed, then.

John sighs, finally relenting in kicking back his sheets and rising from the bed, body stiff in all the old wounded places. The knocking continues, the tempo seeming to echo against the inside of his skull. John hastens his pace to make it stop.

When he pulls the door open, he is greeted by the gangly frame and owlish gaze of William Wiggins, Sherlock’s ‘personal servant’. Not that the man actually does much serving for them; he does Sherlock’s chores, such as washing his clothes and preparing his meals, but Sherlock refuses that the boy do anything else; he is probably about the same age as Sherlock, and John can see the other man has a hard time coming to terms with someone serving him who would have, a few months back, been his superior. Not that Wiggins is being forced to serve Sherlock; if anything, he is being forced _not_ to serve him, the boy awkward and apprehensive about all the things he should be doing but does not.

“Wiggins. What’s the matter?” John asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Sherlock needs to be in the Great Hall within the hour, sir.” Wiggins says, peering over John’s head into the room. He frowns. “Is the prince not here?”

“No,” John shakes his head, ushering the boy backwards. “It’s alright Wiggins, you go and see to your other duties, I’ll go and find him.”

Wiggins backs away, but he still looks reluctant. “If you’re sure, sir? Would you know where he is?”

John nods, forcing his words past the yawn that leaves him. “I know exactly where.”                                                                                    

* * *

 

John is rather more puffed than he would like the admit by the time he reaches the top of the tower which Sherlock has taken over. He catches his breath for a moment, but ever wary of the time he raps on the small door that meets him at the top of the spiral staircase. Not waiting for an answer, he steps inside; he had used their special knock, Sherlock will know it is him.

The light in the room is dim, the four arched windows which divide the circular room covered up with their wooden shutters. In the near darkness, the heaps of books and papers seem like tree trunks, returned to their original form. The only light source comes from the desk in the centre of the room; a three-pronged candelabra alight. There, Sherlock sits, back hunched as he very carefully examines something laid out on the surface through a magnifying glass.

He doesn’t look up or acknowledge John’s approach, but John knows the other man is aware of his presence from the slight incline of his head in John’s direction. Ever so gently, John puts a hand on his shoulder, and draws Sherlock away from his work.

“You’ve been studying through the night, haven’t you?” He asks, with no remonstration in his voice, just genuine curiosity.

Sherlock blinks, eyes looking for John in the darkness which is not breached by the small radius of light given out by his candelabra. “Yes. Is it morning already?”

“It is.” John confirms. He moves to the nearest window, pulling back the shutters and allowing the bright morning light to stream in. He looks to Sherlock, and sees the man visibly relax at his confirmation. It worries John to no end, that Sherlock misses out on sleep like this, but if it is what the man needs to do to deal with the stress and nerves, then John will not stop him.

In the three or so months of being here, things have improved in heaps and bounds for both men. John’s job as court physician has filled him with a new vigour for his doctoral work, and Sherlock has been given the ability to create this room for himself, what he calls a ‘laboratory’, for researching and experimenting. What he is experimenting on, John cannot say, but it seems to be rocks and minerals of some kind, interspersed with the occasional precious jewel; he does not allow himself to worry where this fascination might have come from.

But whilst both their lives have never been better, the shadows of the past still lurk at their heels, as John had known they would. Sherlock has been accepting of this fact, too, but it is hard to see the man mentally beaten down when, following a new event he must now endure as a prince of Sherrinford, for example a memorable dinner in which Sherlock had clumsily made his way through dinner with a knife and fork, the memories of times gone by flare up with the stress and anxiety. Nightmares sometimes follow, some leaving him shaking, others leaving him disassociated, confused as to who he is and where he is; the latter shake John to his core, although he does not show it. But he knows that Sherlock is strong and can bring himself out of them with a little help from John, at times. He reminds himself that three months is still early days in the recovery process; like most paths they have travelled, it is a long one. He himself is sometimes cursed with memories of his sister’s death, now interspersed with images of Mary’s, too, and he can see how Sherlock secretly appreciates when he has the chance to take care of John. Not that the man wishes him any ill will, of course.

So, he knows why Sherlock has spent all night up here; he is nervous and was therefore avoiding sleep lest a particularly bad episode occur. John makes a mental note to offer a sleeping draught, in case sleep deprivation exacerbates any nightmares he might have.

“We’ve got to be down in the Great Hall within the hour, so come on, please. You need to change; you can’t wear trousers crumpled like that.” John says, holding out a hand and heading for the door.

“Hmmm.” Sherlock replies absentmindedly, eyes fixed on the flames of the candelabra.

John frowns. “It’s a big day. A good day. We’ve been waiting for this for months.”

Sherlock nods in agreement, but his eyes remain fixed on the fire. He has not blinked in a long while. John steps forward. “Is it the subject matter? Is that what is making you stressed? That talking about slavery, in front of the whole court, might… trigger something?” John chooses his words carefully, not wanting Sherlock to feel embarrassed and therefore push him away, making everything worse. On the contrary, Sherlock seems to crumple, sighing heavily. His head leans forward until it rests against John’s midriff.

“Oh, John, I thought I was the one who could deduce people…”

John lets out a small chuckle, one arm wrapping around Sherlock’s shoulders whilst the fingers of his other arm wind their way into Sherlock’s dark curls, gently pulling this way and that. Sherlock sighs, leaning more heavily into John.

Since Sherlock’s hair has been allowed to grow back, John has found the curls fascinating; no matter how little Sherlock combs them, they still manage to look so beautifully, artfully placed. They are long and luscious now, a halo of frizz around Sherlock’s face. Something else about them is their ability to help soothe Sherlock’s nerves; one need only pull on the roots gently and then release, repeating this motion, for Sherlock to react instinctively, body relaxing, breathing calming. Sometimes, when the disassociation gets particularly bad, Sherlock will tug on them until John worries he will rip them from his scalp, but it grounds him, and it helps, so John reluctantly says nothing.

“It will be fine,” John assures him as he keeps the motion up. “And I’m not just saying that, so you’ll come downstairs and dress. The Queen will be doing all of the speaking, you just have to sign the parchment at the end and stand in front of the crowd-”

“Who will look on me and know why this law is coming into effect. Because of my _past._ Because ‘Oh, poor Sherlock, he was once a slave boy, oh, didn’t you know?’” Sherlock spits.

John sighs. The rumours surrounding Sherlock’s sudden reappearance have come and gone in their multitudes, but it must have let slip at some point that Prince Sherlock was working to abolish slavery, and the pieces had fallen into place. Why else would he have such a fervour in his mission had it not affected him?

“It is true, people will understand why you’ve done this, why you’ve set this law into action, but do you know what? If they are not thinking, ‘well, look at him now, look at what he has done to fight back, you would think his resolve never broke, wouldn’t you? How strong he is’, then I will see to it that any stupid prattle is put away.” John affirms.

He and Greg have already seen that a lot of false rumours about Sherlock have been put to bed, not touching upon the recovering prince. Sherlock does not need to know about the noble who thinks him an imposter, or the whisperings that he has been ‘affected’ by his time in captivity by one too many bashes to the head. John has made it his mission Sherlock heals in a safe space; Musgrave Palace has already become a safe home for them, and John will not have it otherwise.

“People will not look upon you today and think of a slave boy, Sherlock.” John says, hand stroking his shoulder. “They will think of a prince, who had the courage to understand a world that was not right and change it.”

Sherlock’s breath falters, and his fingers come up to interlace with John’s where they rest on his shoulder. after a moment, he speaks. “You are like a rock to cling to in a vicious sea storm, John.” He murmurs, uttering in those words his thanks and acceptance of John’s words. John’s thumb strokes Sherlock’s hand, and he allows them a moment to share the deep understanding and connection they have before he is moving away, putting on a put-upon tone.

“Oh well I didn’t think I’d put that much weight on. Although the palace food really is very good.” John says lightly, ruffling Sherlock’s curls, and Sherlock’s piercing eyes look up at him and roll dramatically. “Come on, we have to change.”

Sherlock turns back to his desk just long enough to blow out the candelabra before he allows John to drag him from the room.                                                                            

* * *

 

John watches on, pride and joy mixing in his chest, ensuring he does not open his mouth lest he starts crying, as Sherlock stands to attention, listening to his mother’s words. The man looks simply stunning in a navy velvet doublet, paired with black breeches and knee-high black leather boots. Upon his head rests a simple gold circlet, which does nothing to flatten his curls, which still bounce neatly. Lady Hudson is by his side, beaming with a pride reflected in John’s heart.

John is stood to the side of the room, Sally Donovan, a steely woman who, although not friendly, is respectful, next to him on his left, and Molly Hooper, his fellow court physician, on his right. From his vantage point, John can take in the two royals which stand raised on a dais at the top end of the room, and the crowd of nobles and soliders who are turned to them, listening avidly to their Queen speak.

“His Royal Highness King Mycroft Holmes, myself, and my son, Prince Sherlock Holmes, do sign this law in approval of the setting down of the law to abolish slavery from this day hence. I sign on His Royal Highnesses’ behalf today, with the full understanding that my signature carries the full authority and power that his does.” Violet Holmes is a natural-born public speaker, voice clear and tone eloquent. Whilst she had decided not to assume the regency, handing over the reins to her youthful eldest son to reignite some passion into the country, she makes a fine stand-in for Mycroft whilst the king is off in Appledore, sorting out matters there as he prepares to assume the joint rulership of both Sherrinford and Appledore. Lestrade left with him two weeks prior, and John misses the man’s steady and good-natured company; Sally Donovan, Lestrade’s deputy, isn’t quite the same.

Up on the dais, the Queen is signing a parchment which rests on a lectern with a beautiful white feather quill. John’s attention is suddenly caught by the Braker Sword, which rests above her head on the wall, a reminder of the Holmes family’s triumph over the ancient house of Moriarty, noble no more. 

The Queen steps back and passes the quill to Sherlock, who takes it. Sherlock will sign with his new public name: Prince Sherlock Holmes. ‘William’ and ‘Scott’ were removed, the latter because it was surplus and pointless, according to Sherlock, and the former as it did not seem an appropriate fit, anymore. As Sherlock signs, John sees one noblewoman lean over to another to murmur in her ear as they watch Sherlock, faces snide, eyes judgemental. John shoots them a deathly glare, catching one of the women’s eyes, and she glares back, but her eyes flicker down to the floor afterwards and stay there. Good.

Sherlock steps back, quill handed to a page boy, and the Queen smiles at him, and then to her subjects. “It is shown that the law to abolish slavery within the land of Sherrinford is, from this moment forwards, put into full effect. I ask that my Lady Anthea prepare her troops to ride out to detain those who have dealt in this abominable trade, and to free those placed unwillingly in chains.”

Anthea steps forward from her group at the front of the hall, bowing down on one knee, head bent forwards. She puts her good arm to her chest, above her heart. “It shall be done, Your Majesty.”

The Queen nods, and Anthea rises, with a flick of her good hand she gestures for her soldiers to follow her from the room. Anthea, another worthy ally; although she has no feeling in one arm, she has learnt to fight with her other, and copes just as well, or even better. She leads the mission to detain the slave traders in alliance with Irene Adler, who has worked with her to ensure as many brutes as possible are in one place at the same time, ready to be captured. John had never thought that sleeping with a spy-master masquerading as a pimp would get you anywhere, but that is the way of the world, he supposes.

There is a round of applause as the Queen brings the meeting to a close, and then the nobles are dispersing, a multitude of voices chattering away. Sally Donovan nods at both John and Molly and takes her leave, muttering something about training, and Molly claps her hands together, sighing.

“Well, that’s that then.” She says.

“You should have gone with Anthea, Molly,” John jokes, “Seeing as you’re so handy with a blade.”

It is true. Molly had been awarded a medal of honour for her service on the battlefield. The doctor rolls her eyes, however, and sighs. “I am a healer, not a fighter. I am much better suited here.”

John smiles, nodding his head in agreement. Molly excuses herself, insisting she gets back to her duties. John catches sight of Sherlock, in conversation with his mother, before his eyes are caught by another figure, hobbling towards him with a knowing smile on his face, like the cat that just got the cream. John sighs.

“Mr Dartoyle, a pleasure to see you here.” He says through gritted teeth.

“Doctor Watson! My, my, I can see palace life suits you! Gained a few pounds I see!” Dartoyle greets him in a loud tone, and some surrounding courtiers turn and stare, amused.

John’s nostrils flares and he sucks at the inside of his cheeks. “Did you see that in a dream, a long time ago?”  
Dartoyle pretends to think hard on John’s sarcastic question. “I saw a toad once, if that helps?”

John does not take the bait, and instead taps his foot against the ground, putting his hands on his hips. “Look, if you’re here to tell me some riddle about the future, or warn me of an approaching danger, I don’t want to hear it. Let him have this day.”

“Oh, I am not here to tell you the future, Doctor Watson,” Dartoyle replies, and his voice has taken on a reverential tone as he looks towards Sherlock. “I am here to see the present. This is a big event, and someone has to write it down in a chronicle at some point.”

John considers the man next to him, suddenly realising that although Dartoyle appears bent by the weight of hundreds of years, he shows and makes reference to no sign of stopping.

John cannot stop himself from asking, “Are you really an old man? Or is this just a disguise of some sort.”

Dartoyle looks at him with a wicked grin on his face. “I am what I choose to be, and sometimes my choice changes, and my physical body changes thus. I am neither man nor woman, old nor young. My name might not even be Ronan Dartoyle.”

“Then who are you, then?” John asks.

“A _soothsayer.”_ Dartoyle says, letting out a cackling laugh as he references John’s apparent insult of the man’s profession of many months ago. John is startled, in that moment, however, when the man’s face, when he turns to John, is not that of an old man, but of someone not far off John’s age, eyes bright, skin smooth. Then, as suddenly as John sees it, it is gone, replaced with the wizened and wrinkled façade of before.

“How did you-?” He splutters, but Dartoyle simply taps the side of his nose.

“Jewels and stones are awfully nice, but power can be found from inside us, as well.” He says enigmatically, but John catches the meaning, swallowing heavily.

Oh lords. He might keep that from Sherlock.

“You cannot keep it secret forever, Doctor Watson.” Dartoyle replies, and then with a wink he turns and hobbles away.

John sighs. Damn riddles. He has had enough of them.                                                                                      

* * *

 

“Battlements or a ride?” John asks as he finally catches up with Sherlock, antsy and a little frayed around the edges, in a small corridor just off to the side of the Great Hall.

“A ride.” Sherlock says firmly, and he nods to Wiggins, who has been following on, so that the man may go and prepare the horses. “I need to get away from people. I need to clear my head.”

John nods, following on.                                                                                     

* * *

 

They end up riding almost to Saint Bartholomew’s Plain, taking the coastal road. They finally stop at a particularly stunning view of the ocean, the clear and calm water cut in half by two large rocks upon which waves are constantly dashed to pieces, learning nothing from their predecessors. Sherlock slides from Gladstone’s back, able to mount and dismount without help, now, and strokes the horse’s nose in thanks.

John holds out his hand and Sherlock takes it, and both men walk closer to the cliff edge, the wind wreaking havoc with Sherlock’s curls. They sit, a sensible distance back away from the edge, in silence for a while, John giving Sherlock the time he needs to process and unwind.

After a long while, Sherlock places his head on John’s shoulder, and John takes that as his que that he can speak, now. Sherlock’s mind is calm again.

“What you did today, that was the first big change, you know, that we set out to make and actually did?” John remarks.

“Oh, there have been other bigger changes, ones I care as much about as the public matters.” Sherlock says, a hand on John’s thigh. It is not a suggestive touch, only that of a close partner sharing physical contact with their other half, but Sherlock’s words allude to the close contact they have begun to settle more in to, testing themselves and going further each time, to see whether they are comfortable with each other. To see, whether Sherlock is reminded of Magnussen’s touches, of his intentions, but Sherlock has reassured him that John is completely different, and that to, in a sense, ‘replace’ the bad memories with good ones is another way of healing, and so they keep going. It is very good, fantastic, even. John is optimistic.

It seems he has much to be optimistic about these days.

“There is so much more for us to do.” Sherlock says, his own tone light, optimistic. He stares out at the ocean, its blue hues reflected in his own eyes. John could watch those eyes, rather than the waves set out before him; they are just as mesmerising.

John thinks of Dartoyle’s enigmatic words, of the united future of Appledore and Sherrinford, of Sherlock’s research, of the future freedoms in the land. There are possibilities at every turn, the path long and winding.

But John is sure it will be one worth travelling.

“Indeed.” He says, turning to enjoy the same view as Sherlock. The ocean is reflected in both their eyes, now, and they stare into its endless depths.

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... there we have it.
> 
> Thank you so much to anyone who has read my story, and especially thank you to those who have left comments and kudos, or subscribed to my story- I appreciate it deeply.
> 
> Hopefully I'll see you soon in another fictional world and in another timeline some when! Bye!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I decided I would re-write my previous story, 'The Son of the Magpie's King', as I had fallen out of love with it, and the story just didn't seem to work for me from the beginning. And yet, I could not leave the premise behind, and so here we are. This is actually the third version of this story, the second being lost when my laptop died, and I am determined that this will be much better and much more interesting. So, I apologise to anyone who read the first version and was enjoying it, I also thank you for that, but I hope that you enjoy this one which, for me, is much better :)  
> I also hope you are able to view the map which I drew to accompany the story. I hope it will aid your enjoyment of the story, as I for one find it useful to have a map when reading fantasy-based stories! 
> 
> Title is a quote from Shakespeare's 'Henry IV, Part 2', according to www.nosweatshakespeare.com (I hate coming up with titles lol)
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! Thank you!


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